Fight the Good Fight
by Velocity Girl1980
Summary: A joint op with MI6 goes horribly wrong, leaving two SIS agents dead in Iraq. Five are left picking up the pieces, but it's only the start of another trail that leads them into a greater plot much closer to home.
1. Safe Zone

**So, hello again! This plot rather unexpectedly fell into my head during a long bus trip about a month ago (and about two days after declaring myself void of ideas for new Spooks stories). I apologise for the opacity of the opening chapter - it reads as though it should be happening in the middle of a story and not at the start. But these events are merely leading into the main plot. Just as a note: an old story of mine will be referenced multiple times. But it's not necessary to read that one (Touching from a Distance) to understand this one. I'll try and recap where possible.  
**

* * *

 **Chapter One: Safe Zone (Prologue)**

"Harry, tell me why does this keep on happening?"

Beneath the Home Secretary's obvious frustration lay a note of genuine regret. His gaze fell on the two photographs that were face up on his desk; stills from a CCTV camera at Heathrow showing a young couple. The woman was obscured by the niqab and veil, but her husband was fully visible as he wheeled their suitcase through terminal five bound, ultimately, for Baghdad. Harry studied them once more, but had long given up trying to answer that ubiquitous 'why' question.

"It's not for me to psychoanalyse these people, Home Secretary," he answered, coldly. "All I'm interested in is getting them back to the UK and wringing them so dry they rattle."

Towers pushed the stills back towards him and sighed heavily. "I understand that, but surely you're interested. What makes a man of Ahmed Ghazal's obvious capabilities want to give it all up and become the next Jihadi John? Not only that, but taking his own wife along for the ride."

"Because they can't build their fundamentalist Utopia here in Britain," Harry replied. "But like I said, it's not for me to second guess what makes them tick-" he cut himself off, wincing against his own poorly chosen phraseology in light of what the Ghazal's had left Britain to do. Instead, he changed tack and spelled out what was happening next. "We were watching them here in Britain but their midnight flit took us all by surprise. I have Ros Myers and Lucas North out in Baghdad, working alongside their MI6 counterparts, to stop the planned suicide attack. We will bring the Ghazal's back alive to face due process."

Then they would be a goldmine of information about other British extremists, there for the mining by both Five and Six. No doubt, the public would rather see them blown to smithereens but they had to play the longer game. Islamic State informants were as rare as rocking horse shit and Harry was anticipating these two with particular relish.

Towers looked faintly gratified. "If catching these two leads to a greater haul, then you and Siviter have my authority to do whatever it is you must. You can count on my support, Harry."

"Thank you, Home Secretary. If that's all, I really must get back to Thames House. As I'm sure you understand, this op is currently ongoing."

Short briefing over, he was about to get to his feet. Then Towers raised his hand, also pushing his chair back.

"Actually, Harry, there's someone waiting outside that I would like you to meet," he said, leading the way to the door. "John Carlton, Managing Director of Securitech."

"Oh, so the negotiations are moving up a gear?" asked Harry, recognising the name.

"We're almost there, Harry. Just a few minor details to iron out and Securitech will be supplying the British Army with some major state of the art equipment."

About to offer his congratulations, he was cut off as Towers led the way outside. In the hallway, Harry found himself shaking hands with an MD in his middling forties. Once strong, he was now running to portliness and his grey hair was beginning to thin. After a brief and easy exchange of pleasantries, Harry was finally able to take his leave. Anything was better than the British Army riding into battle armed with a toothpick and dustbin lid, whoever was supplying it.

* * *

Bile hit the back of Lucas' throat, bringing on another painful spasm in his gut. He hunched over the toilet bowl and dry heaved all over again. Stomach already voided, nothing came up but the air in his lungs. Breathless and exhausted, he eventually rocked back on his heels and willed the nausea to abate. But the smell in the gents and the oppressive heat conspired against him; even the flickering overhead lights were making him dizzier. Bracing his hands against the grimy tiles on the cubicle wall, he hauled himself upwards. Every joint in his body aching in protest as he then fumbled with the lock on the door.

Once freed, he stumbled as he approached the sink and only arrested his fall by grabbing its edge. Supported once more, he reluctantly met his own bloodshot gaze in the mirror fixed to the wall. Pale and clammy; his jaw was dark with the scrubby beginnings of a beard. Dark circles lined his eyes; lack of sleep from a night spent becoming intimately acquainted with the u-bend of a toilet. To complete the ensemble, large cracks in the glass distorted his reflection to Picasso esque proportions.

"Hello handsome." Ros' voice was monotone and dry as she spoke from the doorway of the toilets. Her expression flat and wry.

"You're funny," he replied, glancing at her from over his shoulder.

"I have my moments," she added, pushing away from the partition wall she was leaning against. She stopped directly behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist. He could feel her face resting between his shoulder blades. "You didn't drink the water, did you?"

"I'm not an idiot."

"Did you brush your teeth in it? Ice cubes in the drinks? It could have come from anywhere," she said. "Not that it really matters. You're out of action and I'm as good as alone out there."

"No; I know all that. Must have been whatever was in that stew last night." At least he thought it was a stew. It was hard to tell, but he'd eaten it anyway. Innocuously tasteless and colourless, he was left gobsmacked by its devastating effects. He'd been chomping at the bit to come out to Baghdad, too. To the point where he almost railroaded his way in. Now he proved worse than useless.

Wearily, he turned around to face her, leaning back against the edge of the sink for support.

"I'm sorry," he sighed. "I know I've let you down."

Despite their surroundings, Ros was still dressed in heels, pencil skirt and crisp white blouse. Her hair was swept up into a tidy bun.

"It's okay; it's hardly your fault," she assured him. "But if you think you can make it back out there, it would be a great help. The only Arabic I know is 'where is the supermarket' and they don't even have a Tesco here."

Their colleagues from Six were out tailing the suspects, leaving them inside without reliable translators. All they could do was watch the screens in the control room and keep directing, hoping for the best. At least Aisha and Addie had been based in Iraq for over a year and knew their way around. That was the one scant advantage they had.

"I guess they don't have Russian as a second language," he said, despondently. "Still, the Ghazal's are almost as new to Baghdad as we are and this is only the dry run."

"Or, so we hope."

Trying his best to ignore the nausea that still gathered, he followed Ros back out into what passed for their control room. A uniformly grey structure, with one wall given up to accommodate several screens showing CCTV images of a busy market area. The local police force patrolled the streets in convoys of armoured vehicles, clinging together in tight units. Roadside IEDs were still commonplace. Just the previous day Lucas had been watching a particularly uninteresting strip of road, when one exploded and took out half a mile of asphalt and a handful of market stalls that were once lining it. It was the suddenness of these detonations that shocked him; their seemingly arbitrary nature. Like the virus currently squirming through his guts, the eruptions were sudden and brutal and utterly unforgiving.

The top screen distorted, ghosts rippling the moving pictures and pixelating the people gathered at a market stall. Lucas squinted, trying to pick out who was who. But even their man, Addie, was currently disguised as a woman in a full niqab and veil. He was lost in a sea of black and white.

"I don't see anything," he said, vaguely. "How are we supposed to know what's going on?"

But Ros wasn't listening. She was over by the telephones, talking to an interpreter who had just come through a side door. Meanwhile, his dizziness hit with full force and Lucas had to grope for a chair. There was a headset nearby, through which they could communicate with their colleagues out in the field, but the explosion happened before he could even reach it.

Each and every screen on the wall in front of him flared a blinding white; the muted sound rendering the scene silent and surreal. The shock made his nausea peak once more and he had to grab a wastepaper bin to throw up in, just as all hell broke loose around them. _That wasn't meant to happen_ , he thought to himself. _None of that was meant to happen._

There was something else that was highly odd about that explosion. But he couldn't think what it was while retching into a wastepaper bin.

* * *

Ruth hung up the telephone feeling eerily calm. Before deciding what to do next, she looked out over the Grid through Harry's office window and took a moment to gather her thoughts. Beth and Tariq were out there still, attempting to restore the Baghdad live feed. Nathan was some distance away, buried in some files about their suspects. Harry himself still had not returned from briefing the Home Secretary. She suspected that he had informed Towers that everything was under control and the Ghazal's were as good as apprehended already. It made her nerves spasm.

She hated herself for thinking it, but she grateful for the fact that it wasn't any of their own agents they would have to bury. But before she could go too far down that path, the phone rang again and caused her to jump. Before she could even say her name, the person on the other end started talking rapidly. Reaching for a pen, she began jotting down notes that Harry could read later on, in the unlikely event that she forgot any of this.

"It definitely wasn't an IED then?" she asked, still feeling eerily detached. "Two SIS Agents confirmed dead. The bombers as well. How many civilians?"

She noted it all down, names and statistics alike. Already thinking ahead about how to get Ros and Lucas safely out there and back to Thames House so they could all be properly briefed. When the call ended, she once more replaced the receiver and, finding Harry's office suddenly claustrophobic, headed for the door.

"Ruth," said Beth, getting up from behind her terminal. "Are Lucas and Ros safe?"

For a moment, they met each other's gaze. After a moment to process the question, Ruth nodded. "Fine. They were still in the safe zone and not out in the field."

 _Safe zone._ She repeated the phrase in her head, as if there actually was such a thing out in Baghdad. But she didn't have long to stand and chat as the pods whooshed open and Harry emerged, looking flustered and bewildered. He didn't say anything as he approached her, but caught her by the elbow as he passed, signalling for her to follow. Back in that goldfish bowl of an office, he closed the door behind her and shut the blinds.

"You've heard the news, then?" she asked. "Did they tell you what it was?"

He half fell into his chair and buried his face in his hands for a moment. When he looked back up at her, his age was showing.

"Two bloody minutes after me telling the Home Secretary everything was under control!" he griped.

Ruth almost smiled. "Six called me back straight after I'd called them to confirm the explosion."

"And?"

"It was more than just a routine bomb, Harry," she said, finally feeling the effects of the intel. Her skin crawled in gooseflesh. "It contained a nerve agent. Everyone within a five mile radius of that bomb is affected. It could have been worse, but for the calm weather."

The impact of what she said registered on his face; eyes widening in shock.

"So, two British terrorists have let loose some nerve agent in Iraq?" he said, aghast. "This gets better and better. But how did they bloody well get it in the first place?"

That she could not answer. Both Ahmed Ghazal and his wife had been watched closely by Section D, but still they'd managed to give them the slip. Shakily, Ruth pulled up the seat opposite Harry's and sat down. She no longer trusted her legs to support her weight.

"They can't very well have carried that through customs, Harry," she pointed out. "It's not like we could have foreseen it. Have you been in touch with Jools Siviter? Surely someone over at Legoland knows what's going on?"

"I only know because Ros herself called me, never mind Jools Siviter," said Harry. "To cap it all, Lucas is as sick as a dog out there."

Ruth's nerves kicked in once more. "What? You mean he's-"

"Nothing like that," Harry interjected. "No, it's just something he ate. But he's been worse than bloody useless, according to Ros. But they're both safe and that's all that matters now."

"Did you know the MI6 agents who were killed?" she asked, calming herself again. "I'd only heard of them, myself."

Harry shook his head. "They would have been killed instantly. I doubt they even knew what was happening." Then he paled again, leaning back in his seat and groaning audibly. "Now I have to tell the Home Secretary. You know how the press will react if they get wind of this. It'll be a PR nightmare for him."

She couldn't say she envied him. But before Harry could become too despondent at the prospect, she raised her hand. "Before you do that, we need to plan what's happening next. At least that way you can have something positive to put in front of Towers."

"Like what?" he asked.

Ruth shrugged, rather unhelpfully. But then she got to her feet and crossed to the door, calling Nathan into the office. She waited for him to lock the files he'd been reading into his top drawer before joining her.

"Is this about the bombing?" he asked as he ducked under Ruth's arm.

"Well guessed," she said, once more closing the door behind him. "But there's something we need you to do."

She sat back down, leaving Nathan standing by the door as though he were keen to escape.

"The cell that the Ghazal's were attached to," she began. "You're still working on the leader, Sharaf Suleiman, aren't you?"

Nathan frowned in consternation. "Working on it, but he's far from turned."

Harry leaned forwards in his seat, suddenly keen-eyed again. "But you've spoken to him, haven't you? On more than one occasion now."

"He knows rightly who I am," he said. "There's no shitting the guy on that front."

"We're not saying there is," replied Ruth. "But try and get him talking anyway. Meet on neutral ground and see if you can't get just a hint of information from him."

"Er, isn't that what I'm doing already?" he asked, gaze darting from Ruth to Harry.

Ruth drew a deep breath before explaining the situation in full. About the nerve agent and the death toll, and the death toll that would probably keep on tolling for some time to come. Harry listened intently, also, as the embryonic action plan formed.

"It's highly unlikely that he'll just tell me who supplied them with the bomb," he pointed out. "So far, all he's done is call me an infidel whore who deserves to burn in hell."

"That's probably a compliment," Harry pointed out.

Nathan shrugged. "I did say to him that I took it as such."

Ruth rolled her eyes. "Just try and at least then we can have some sort of action plan for Towers. Besides, I'm curious about this myself. Meet him tomorrow, if you can."

"Sure," he agreed. "Am I to take it the nature of the bomb is as yet classified, even to the others?"

"It'll come out eventually," Harry replied. "But for now, yes it is. Say nothing."

With Nathan dismissed, Ruth turned back to Harry. "It's a longshot, but it's better than nothing."

Harry didn't look remotely enthused. "Sometimes, I hate everybody."

"You don't mean that!" she replied, raising a pained smile. "Come on, it's nearly time and you need a drink."

They both knew "time" wouldn't come that day. But they did steal a moment to access the roof space to clear their heads and refresh themselves. By that time, it was almost dusk and the city had quietened. The traffic sounded distant and the air was clearer, free of the ground pollution. Together, they looked out over the darkening rooftops, hand in hand as they leaned against one another.

"Towers introduced me to the MD of that firm who'll be supplying the armed forces," he said.

"Oh really. Securitech?" she asked. "The forces need the equipment and the people need the jobs. Everyone's a winner, by the sounds of it."

"His name's John Carlton," Harry added. "Seems like a decent enough chap. But Towers wants us at some god awful sounding reception to mark the occasion."

Ruth sighed heavily. "Whatever for?" she asked, but didn't hold out for an answer. The day had been long enough, without the added complications of the Government's corporate manoeuvrings thrown in on top.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading. For the international folk reading this, "Legoland" is a pet name for MI6 headquarters (near Vauxhall). Reviews would be lovely, if you have a minute.**


	2. Dead Ends

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story; it means a lot. Thank you!**

* * *

 **Chapter Two: Dead Ends. **

Home had never been such a welcome sight, even from several hundred feet in the air. Well, at least not since the last time home was a welcome sight. Lucas watched from the aircraft window as they circled the night skies over London, looking down at the nebulous fuzz of lights. The swing of the plane as it turned and descended a little further played with his spinning mind, making his stomach lurch as the world tipped sideways. Turning away before he threw up again, his thoughts returned to the city they had left behind. Having slept through the entirety of the flight, it really did feel as though he had just left Baghdad.

They left behind seventy-two people dead and over three hundred more suffering the effects of whatever comprised that bomb. A nerve agent or chemical compound that continued to wreak its havoc like so many aftershocks. An invisible enemy churning the bodies of its victims from within, destroying their eyesight and eroding the lungs. Film footage shot on a mobile phone showed hospital waiting rooms full of people choking up the remains of their own respiratory tracts.

Ros had already moved on to the 'how's' and the 'why's'. Especially the 'how'. How did Islamic State get their hands on a chemical weapon of that calibre? Lucas, meanwhile, was still stuck on the level of self-recrimination and asking 'what if?' What if he had been functioning at peak health? What if he had been able to stay conscious?

When they had first appeared, he had struggled to identify what it was, precisely, that separated Islamic State from their fundamentalist predecessors. They shared the same modus operandi; the same goals; the same arbitrary nature and penchant for religiously loaded rhetoric. Both were so ferociously out of touch with the faith they claimed to be representing, so why the split in the first place? It hadn't made much sense to him and, like the rest of the world, could only look on helpless as their meteoric rise continued.

But where Al-Qaeda performed their atrocities with a grim sense of fanatical duty; Islamic State threw themselves into the task with positive glee. To Lucas, it seemed, they simply enjoyed killing people. That that was their motivational force and they loved it so much they now try their hand at killing their own history, too.

All that hatred; all that blood. Sometimes, he hated his job.

"Ros," he said, as the plane bumped against the runway. "We're too old for Veterinary School aren't we?"

Ros looked up from the inflight magazine she was reading, a thoughtful expression on her face. "I think it's safe to say we've missed that boat, Lucas. Are you holding out for universal popularity again?"

"Not really," he replied. "Just looking for somewhere with a little less hate."

"I have bad news for you, anyway. I was entirely wrong about vets. Nathan had to have his cat put down this morning, after the vet missed its early stage cancer. He is not a popular man," she explained, matter of factly.

"I think we missed the odd early sign or two ourselves," he said. "Maybe we shouldn't be so hard on the guy."

The lights in the cabin returned to full strength and the few passengers on board prepared to disembark. Still aching all over, Lucas hauled himself out of his seat and hit his head on the baggage hold. Ros winced for him. "That just knocked some sense into you."

* * *

No matter how often she did this, Ruth couldn't get used to it. At every function and reception she attended, she ended up in the same place: somewhere on the side lines, clutching the same glass of wine for hours on end and watching everyone else have all the fun. However, her luck changed as the Home Secretary materialised at her shoulder with the Securitech MD in tow. Suspecting he was simply passing by, she had pulled her chair up to make room in the narrow aisle that separated her table from the others. But, instead of passing by, he helped himself to the seat that Harry had just vacated for a trip to the gents, then offered a third to the MD.

"What was Harry thinking, going off and leaving you all alone like this," he joked.

It was all Ruth could do not to roll her eyes. "I'm sure I'll survive, Home Secretary. Harry will be back in a minute if you want to wait for him."

She scanned the horizon, hoping he was on his way back already. But as luck would have it Harry had been engaged in conversation at the bar and was showing no sign of bringing it to a close. Feeling cut adrift, she cast around desperately for small talk revolving around either golf or gardening. Fishing, at a stretch.

"Oh, you'll do. Ruth, have you met the Managing Director of Securitech? John, this is Ruth Evershed," said William Towers. "We're very lucky to have her, you know. Ruth's public appearances are greeted with the sort of awe and wonder normally reserved for UFO sightings."

Smiling at the Home Secretaries dire attempts at charm, Ruth reached across the table and shook John Carlton's hand.

"Lovely to meet you, Miss Evershed," said Carlton.

"Likewise," she replied, noticing how flushed he looked. "Lovely do, Home Secretary."

Towers briefly glanced around, checking out the VIPs in attendance. "Not too shabby, is it. This deal with Securitech will benefit a lot of people, after all."

"God knows, the economy needs it," replied Ruth. "Where will the factory be set up? Or have the finer details yet to be ironed out?"

It was Carlton who answered her. "We're working on it. But I hope to have at least one set up in Greater Manchester – an area of high unemployment … and where I grew up myself."

A local boy done good. It was always a good look. But Towers switched the conversation round abruptly. "Harry must be seething about the news from Iraq. Are your people back yet, or are you not supposed to say anything?"

"They're on their way," Ruth replied. "And trust me, Harry is not the only one seething about this."

Which reminded her that Beth was supposed to be collecting Ros and Lucas from the airport. By now, she could only hope she had remembered. Meanwhile, Harry seemed to have forgotten her as his conversation continued at the bar. But at least he'd gotten as far as collecting their drinks. Meanwhile, the Home Secretary began regaling Carlton with details of the Iraqi operation; setting Ruth's teeth on edge. Regardless of what deals were being signed, regardless of what weaponry this man was about to supply them with, he still did not need to know operational details from the Secret Intelligence Services.

"Er, Home Secretary-"

She tried to edge into the conversation, only to be cut off again as Towers talked over.

"Myers has a tendency to err on the frosty side, but Lucas North has always struck me as a more malleable type – a bit of a personality by-pass, but a good yolk all round," Towers emphasised his point by clapping a hand on her bare knee. Ruth's eyes widened in alarm as he glanced at the offending limb. "Ah, here comes Harry."

Ruth swiftly removed Towers' hand from her knee and stood up, ready to discreetly divert Harry. But he had already clocked the scene, his gaze darting from Ruth to Towers and back again.

"Don't mind me. I was only joking when I took those vows," he said, attempting to laugh it off. But the look in Harry's eyes suggested that had it been anyone other than Towers, he would have spent the remainder of the night picking the man's teeth out of his knuckles.

Now approaching full mortification, Ruth grabbed her handbag and led Harry away. "He's telling that businessman all about Ros and Lucas. I tried to stop him but he grabbed my knee. Harry, he's pissed, you need to get him home."

"What? Me?" he retorted. "How am I supposed to do that?"

Ruth's brow creased and she shrugged. "I don't know. But state security currently depends on it!"

Harry sighed heavily, depositing their drinks in her hands before heading back towards Towers. "The things I do for this country," he moaned, before turning to the task at hand. Ruth knocked back both drinks.

* * *

Nathan put his foot down on the accelerator as the minute hand ticked towards nine. Sharaf Suleiman was never late and their meeting place was still two miles down the road. Chairman Meow lay stiff as a board on the backseat and covered in his favourite woollen blanket, drawing his owner's attention from the road. Only the prospect of being pulled over for speeding and having to explain a dead cat to the police compelled him to slow down as he closed in on the meeting place.

There was a multi storey car park close to the spot and he pulled into the ground level, finding it almost abandoned. The office blocks nearby had emptied during the recession, so this out of the way spot now lay largely abandoned. Behind that, conveniently, was the pet burial place where Chairman Meow was destined for his final journey.

There were just two other vehicles there, one of them belonging to Suleiman. Pulling in next to him, Nathan shut off the engine and turned to the back seat as though checking up on the cat. He reached over, patted down the blanket ensuring it was in place and sighed sadly.

"I won't be long," he promised.

Outside, Suleiman came up to meet him. The two of them shook hands and circled the third car that was parked nearby. There was no one inside it but they left the car park to avoid possible interruptions from the returning over. A canal path wended between the few functioning commercial buildings, so Nathan opted for that. Waiting until they had passed a small gaggle of children throwing stones into the stagnant water, Suleiman made small talk. It was a fine morning, clear and warm with the promise of only growing warmer. Far enough from the city for the traffic to sound distant, they strolled along the path like two old friends.

"Your cat is with Allah now," Suleiman promised him. "You should rejoice."

Nathan smiled. "That's very reassuring. As long as he gets his virgins too."

Suleiman sighed. "It amazes me how many people believe that."

Unwilling to enter a theological debate, Nathan let the matter drop. They had passed the stone throwing kids now and it was time to get down to business.

"Oi! Osama Bin Laden!" one of the kids called out, now they were at a safe distance.

They all burst out laughing, the sound of their footsteps scarpering into the distance before Nathan even had a chance to turn around. Not that he would have reacted anyway. When he looked back at Suleiman, however, he noticed the man beaming.

"You take that as a compliment?" he asked, confused. "Never mind the irony; that's still racial abuse!"

"I'm not stupid," Suleiman replied, still untroubled. "They're children looking for a chase; I bet they don't even know who Osama Bin Laden really is."

Nathan shrugged. He'd been called a Welsh sheep shagger often enough to simply not give a damn anymore. Their gentle walk continued, even until the concrete path petered out, giving way to over grown, beaten earth. An electric blue dragonfly hovered among the reeds on the banks of the canal, catching the younger man's eye. Suleiman didn't seem to have noticed it.

"So, your people in Iraq," Nathan began. "You have anything for us?"

"They're not my people," Suleiman pointed out. "They travelled of their own free will and not even you have the right to stop people doing that."

"We can if we suspect they're off on a suicide bombing holiday!" Nathan retorted. "We take a pretty dim view of chemical warfare, too."

"Hmmm…" Suleiman added. "That's interesting."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Nathan drew a deep breath.

Suleiman confounded him. He was always calm and rational; altogether lacking the crazed fervour that seemed to fuel his fellow fanatics. He was almost downright friendly on most occasions; this being no exception.

"It is nothing. But likewise, I have nothing to offer you," he eventually said. "I pose no danger to you, nor to this country. But wherever Jihad is being fought, that is my business."

"Oh come on, Sharaf," Nathan cut in. "Surely you saw how many people were killed in that bomb? They were Muslims, you know. And this is what I don't get about your friends in Islamic State: so far, most of their victims have been fellow Muslims. Did you know it was a chemical bomb? Is this what you wanted?"

"None of us want war-"

"That's not what I asked, Sharaf. Tell me, how did they get that bomb?"

They turned around, walking back the way they had come.

"It was sold to us," said Sharaf.

Nathan waited for him to continue, but he didn't. Exasperated, Nathan gave himself a minute to compose himself and gather his wits.

"I think we'd figured that bit out for ourselves," he said, at length. "Care to divulge the seller? You know we'll protect you, should anyone ever find out."

There was no one around. The only sound was of wading birds flapping among the mud banks and the buzz of an occasional insect. Even by the time they reached the car park again, it was still quiet. But rather than returning to their cars, Suleiman drew Nathan aside. The owner of the third car seemed to have returned as the passenger door was now open. Briefly, he considered going up a level, to the first floor from which you could look down over a mezzanine onto the ground. But Suleiman seemed content with pausing by the perimeter wall.

"It was sold to us by Securitech," said Suleiman.

Nathan's expression darkened, unsure of whether he was hearing it true.

"The same Securitech that's just signed a deal with the British Government?" he asked, sceptically.

Suleiman replied in earnest. "By the Managing Director himself. Whether you choose to believe or not is entirely your choice. But that's all I can give you."

He turned to walk away, but Nathan wasn't through with him yet. "Wait! Of course I'll tell my boss. But tell me a time and a place when I can bring him to meet with you. Work for us properly; we need you."

"I thought I already was working for you," Suleiman answered. "But, same time next week. Bring him and I'll tell him what I told you."

"Proof," Nathan said, once more delaying his departure. "Bring proof; we can't just take your word for it. Do you have any with you now; anything I can take back to my boss?"

The other man's expression fell. "I'm afraid not. I'll do what I can."

Frustrating as it was, Nathan let the other man go. He returned to his own car, ready to drop the dead cat off at the pet cemetery place for cremation. But had second thoughts of his own. It was only nine thirty and he needed to clear his head. Bagging up the Chairman in a bin liner from the boot, he began the short journey on foot.

* * *

Ros opened up proceedings by apologising for Lucas' absence. "He's in hospital being treated for dehydration," she explained in response to Ruth's alarmed look. "He could be in for a few days. Honestly, everything that could go wrong did so, and more besides."

Now that the moment had come, she realised how little there was to tell. One minute all was going well; the next and all hell had broken loose. Under normal circumstance she had leads to follow up, or ideas of how to prevent it happening again. Her only consolation was that this, in reality, was someone else's problem.

"Six are handling the Iraqi situation, which leaves us second guessing what British extremists are up to," she added, meeting Harry's gaze across the meeting room table. She then looked back at Ruth. "Is there any developments suggesting an attack on British soil?"

Ruth hesitated before answering, consulting some files. "Nothing. There is no change. Our biggest worry is people leaving the country and carrying out attacks abroad – which then becomes Six's territory."

So that was it. They just had to let the case go. It left Ros with a strangely flat feeling, as though the failure of their op was just going to be left to fester.

"We'll be attending the funerals of the MI6 Agents killed in the field," Harry said, glancing over at Ruth. "You and Lucas are welcome to join us, if you so wish."

An invitation Ros responded to with a nod. "I'll tell him tonight. There's no reason why he shouldn't be discharged in time."

There was little else to say or do. They could only get back in the saddle and carry on as before.

* * *

Nathan didn't hang around for the cremation. It would be done later; then he and Olly would be contacted to collect the Chairman's ashes when appropriate. He paid the bill and returned to his car, finding both Suleiman's and the third vehicle still there. As he entered the ground level, his attention was also caught by the return of the charming children who had resumed their stone throwing games in the near distance.

Thinking little of it, he started up the engine and put his car in gear. Slowly, he crawled the car out of the car park and paused at the entrance as his phone began to ring. Ducking down into the glove compartment, he rummaged for his mobile uttering a curse under his breath. Almost as if in response, something hit the roof of his car with a loud thump and his engine stalled. Before he could even look up, he heard footsteps fleeing from the first storey.

"Bloody feral kids!" he snapped out loud.

His phone fell silent; number not recognised. He sat up straight in the driver's seat and rubbed his tired eyes. Out of habit, he checked the back seat but found it empty. Not even a dead cat kept him company now. Despondent, revved the stalled engine, giving the vehicle a jolt as he did so. Before he pulled out into the forecourt, he noticed the children still throwing stones in the same place as moments before. While he looked, a narrow trickle of blood began running down the windscreen.

He didn't notice it at first, not until it slowly dribbled past his line of sight; slowly gathering momentum as gravity kicked in. Even then he did not move. He froze in place, knuckles turning white as he gripped the steering wheel. He turned to open his door, noticing with a twist of sickness that another trickle of blood was running down his car door. Whatever it was, it was still on the roof.

Steeling himself for the worst, he kicked open the door and exited backwards so he would see what was up there right away.

* * *

Harry replaced the telephone receiver and waved Ruth over. While she crossed the Grid, he thought again about the previous night's shenanigans with the Home Secretary. When Ruth entered, he pulled up a chair for her and brought it round to his side.

"That was William Towers on the phone," he explained.

Ruth tried not to grin. "And?"

"He's forgotten everything and insists he only had two or three drinks." It was a line he himself had trotted out more times than he cared to remember. But Towers was a different matter altogether. "Don't you think it was odd? Even if he was drunk, it's not in his nature to start blithely banging on about SIS personnel in such a fashion. As for the wandering hands, well… least said, soonest mended perhaps."

He had only heard it second hand from Ruth. But Ros and her frostiness and Lucas with his personality by-pass, although flippant, was still as good as a security breech. It did not sit right with Harry; it jarred at him.

"He was celebrating, Harry," said Ruth. "Maybe he lost track of how much he'd had. Happens to the best of us. We don't all turn into gropers, though."

Harry was about to go on, but for Ruth's mobile ringing. While she answered, he got up to make coffee for them both. He passed Ros on his way to the kitchenette, but she was on the phone too, giving a fake name to Lucas' hospital. By the time he made it back to his office, Ruth had returned to her desk. She was rummaging frantically through the drawer of her desk.

"Harry!" she called over, waving her car keys at him. "We've got to go. It's Nathan."

He put the steaming cups down on Ros' desk. The Section Chief had put the phone down and was now looking up at Ruth.

"What's happened?" he asked. "Is Nathan okay?"

With the car keys in her hands, she came over to stand by them in a huddle. "He's in a state out there, but from what I can make out the asset he spoke to this morning has just been murdered. His severed head was dropped on Nathan's car as he exited the car park."

Ros' expression hardened; eyes narrowing as she worked it out. "Shit! So this happened between the end of the meeting and Nathan getting in his car. That must be a window of about two seconds!"

Ruth shook her head. "He had another errand to run. He left the scene and returned no more than twenty minutes later. Apparently the severed head was, er, very fresh."

Harry baulked. "Never mind all this; Nathan's still out there with the killer at large. Getting him back safely is our priority."

Ros caught herself on. "Of course, shall I come with you?"

He asked her to remain behind but held out his hand for Ruth to come with him. Together, they hurried off the Grid, Harry neglecting to even fetch his jacket.

"God, I hope Nathan's okay," said Ruth, as they reached the pods. "As for Suleiman; another bloody way in with these people getting a taste of his own medicine may be grimly poetic, but it's still a pain in our arse."

It was a bitter thought, but Harry had to admit that it had occurred to him too. Whatever was going on, it seemed they hit nothing but dead ends.

* * *

 **Thanks again for reading; reviews would be lovely, if you have a minute.**


	3. Broken Things

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thank you!**

* * *

 **Chapter Three: Broken Things  
**

It wasn't the first time that one of Harry's agents had been brought back to Thames House with somebody else's blood congealing in their hair. But it was still an infrequent enough event as to raise a few eyebrows as they passed through reception. Harry met their gaze, inwardly defying them to say something. Whether it was the look on his face or the temper he oozed, no one complained. Before entering the Grid, Harry and Ruth remained outside the pods while Nathan detoured to the gents to get cleaned up.

While they waited for him, he looked her up and down, noting that she was still ashen faced and shaky. They had found Nathan waiting next to his car, breathless and scared half to death. Like the centrepiece in a scene straight from the Tales of the Macabre, their Asset's severed head had rolled down the windshield, leaving in its wake a spiralling trail of blood and landed in the dirt next to the front left wheel. It was the first thing they saw as they exited their own vehicle. Immediately upon arrival, he regretting not leaving Ruth behind and bringing Ros instead.

"I made eye-contact with it," Ruth said as they waited. "God, Harry, it was staring right at me."

"Don't worry, I don't think he saw you," he replied, trying to sound reassuring. He flashed her a smile to alleviate the tension. "Anyway, a scene like that, it is rather eye catching."

That being said, Harry knew there was someone watching them. While they were inspecting the scene and waiting for the police to show up, Harry tried to shake the feeling off. It was like being a kid who had watched a horror film and couldn't shift the fear that there really was a monster lurking beneath the bed. He couldn't see anyone besides Ruth, Nathan and most of Sharaf Suleiman's head; but he thought he heard footsteps pacing the concrete floor of the car park. For the twenty minutes it took them to arrive, Nathan had been alone with the killer – Harry was certain of it. A thought that made him shiver on Nathan's behalf and one that made him stay silent about his suspicions. But now they were safe and back at the Grid, there could be no skirting around the issue.

"Harry, do you not think we should send him home for the day? Get his boyfriend to come and pick him up; I have Oliver's number back at my desk."

Ruth meant well, but Harry disagreed. "On the contrary, I want this over and done with – for his own sake more than anything else. That and I don't want him blanking any details out."

She smiled a wan smile. "You're all heart these days."

"It's not just that I don't think he'll be able rest – I'll have one of our friendly doctors prescribe something in that case," he pointed out. "It's more that I don't want him going home at all. I'll have Beth arrange a safe house for him and his partner. Just until we know more."

Ruth's eyes widened as she looked up at him. "You think Nathan was seen?"

"Actually, I think we all were," he said, then quickly soothed her. "But it's just a precaution. We still don't know what Suleiman said to Nathan. We don't know much of anything, just yet. I'm just not willing to take any risks."

After five minutes, Nathan returned. His dark auburn hair was mussed up in a mess of wild curls where he'd dried it under an automatic hand dryer. But at least it was bloodless now. He pulled at it nervously, attempting to work it back into some semblance of neatness – something he rarely achieved on the best of days.

"Right then," he said. "Where are we doing this?" He looked and sounded like he was about to be water boarded.

Harry led the way to his office, beckoning Ros over as he went. She quickly fell into step with Nathan, offering him whispered words of encouragement that Harry could not make out. Ruth nipped over to Beth to relay Harry's safe house instructions before joining them in the private office. To seal them in a little tighter, he blocked them from view by closing the blinds over his window. Once that was done, he poured a measure of whiskey into a tumbler and handed it to Nathan.

"First things first," he declared. "Get that down you and steel yourself."

Ruth frowned disapprovingly and muttered something about hot, sweat tea. Words that trailed off into silence as Nathan downed the whiskey faster than a blink of the eye. Harry flashed him an encouraging smile as he took back the glass and the whiskey worked its restorative magic.

"Before he was killed, Suleiman told me something," Nathan began, perking up a little. "He said to me that it was Jon Carlton, Managing Director of Securitech, who sold that dirty bomb to ISIS."

Ruth's glance shot up sharply. "Did he have proof?"

"No. He said he would bring it when we next met. He asked me to bring Harry," replied Nathan, meeting his boss' gaze.

Harry had been expecting a walkthrough of the events leading up to Suleiman's murder and nothing more. But this felt like the ground giving way beneath his feet. An accusation that could change everything, but with nothing to back it up. Or at least, nothing at hand.

"Surely we can still investigate, Harry?" Ros asked. "Suleiman said he was going to bring proof to the next meet. Which must surely mean it exists somewhere."

Harry could tell she was already getting the bit between her teeth.

"These people don't give receipts," he replied. "I don't think there'll be any invoices lying around, either. But there's no harm in looking."

Ruth glanced between the two of them. "Surely we should also warn the Home Secretary? He's the one about to strike a big deal with this man."

As tempting as it was, Harry found himself being instinctively cautious. Towers was banking a lot on his deal going through, he had staked his career and reputation on it. They could go to him with a baseless accusation and trust the word of a terrorist in a tight spot; or they could risk the truth and watch the government do business with a war criminal on the make. Harry considered both options carefully, sighing deeply in conclusion.

"Play it down for now," he said, at length. "Gently does it."

"We could just say that improper dealings have come to light," Ruth suggested.

"Or we could just tell Towers what Suleiman said," Ros cut in. "I think Ruth's right, Harry. Towers needs to know and what he does, or doesn't do, with that information is then entirely up to him and reflects back on nobody except him."

Nathan lifted himself out of his own thoughts, turning to Harry. "For what it's worth, I'm with Ros and Ruth too."

Harry waved one hand, dismissively. "Fair enough then. We tell him. But if this investigation gets back to Carlton he could cause problems. For which the Home Secretary will surely blame us."

"Sod it," said Ros. "And sod him. Harry, it's not like you to care about a politician."

"I don't!" Harry retorted, stung. "But Towers has been better than most and good to me. All the more reason to warn him, I suppose."

"Anyway, Nathan, what happened next?" Ruth said, bringing the meeting back around to the original topic.

Nathan seemed to falter again once the subject was back on him. He looked at them each in turn and drew a deep breath as he resumed retelling the morning's events.

"The meeting didn't last long. We walked along the canal path for less than half a mile. We passed some kids throwing stones, who shouted some abuse at Suleiman as we passed. They ran off immediately. I looked back at them and, if anyone else was following us, I would have seen them. There was no one. Anyway, we turned and walked back. We talked some more about Carlton – stuff I've already mentioned – and then he got into his car. The third car that was there had the door open, but the owner was nowhere to be seen. I went on foot to some pet cremation place and when I got back I heard something hit the car. The kids were back and I thought it was them hitting my car with a stone. Then I saw the blood on the windshield. I think I heard footsteps on the second floor of the car park – but I can't be sure. I phoned the Grid and was put through to Ruth.

When that call ended, I investigated the car park. But I didn't see anyone. I thought I did, and I ran after them, but I was chasing shadows, Harry. The killer was gone, I think. You arrived not much after that, so I left the rest to you."

In his mind, Harry returned to the scene. The third car was still there, he remembered seeing it as he entered the car park. Its passenger door was wide open, with no one inside. But the feeling of being watched once more returned to him. It was only after he had seen the head that the feeling came over him. Whether spooked or whether it was real, he could not say for certain. It was only his gut instinct telling him the killer was still there, watching them all.

"Harry," said Ros, voice full of concern. "Harry, what's up? You're pale."

Jolted out of his reverie, he gave himself a quick mental shakedown. "It's nothing. I'm fine."

But it wasn't. He pushed back his chair and rose to his feet, dismissing everyone else in the room. Only Ruth remained behind, finishing taking some notes before also standing. Nathan had shut the door after himself and the blinds were still drawn across the window. Taking advantage of their privacy, Harry wrapped his arms around her.

"We'll need a proper drink tonight, I think," he said, wearily. "But for now, how about some tea?"

"Sounds good to me," she concurred.

Severed heads had never been good for the appetite. But they left the Grid, arm in arm, for the nearest café anyway. To clear their minds and steeling themselves for whatever lay ahead.

* * *

"Some people have all the fun, don't they?" Lucas was sat up in bed, once more restored to human levels of consciousness. But he was still wired up to an intravenous drip and deathly pale. So white he almost blended nicely with the counterpane over his hospital bed.

Ros had drawn the curtain round his bay, shutting out the other visitors crowded around their sick relatives. Now she was sat in an uncomfortable plastic chair at his bedside, regaling him with the latest happenings on the Grid. She tried to keep her voice low so no one overheard anything about severed heads or dodgy government business deals.

"Exactly, see what we've been missing out on since you got sick?" she replied. "Just rehydrate soon – use a bloody water canon if you have to – and get back to work. This is turning out to be interesting."

Not for the first time he felt the frustration at his enforced inactivity. He had slept for most of the day, letting the medics pump him full of antibiotics and saline fluid, hoping it would kick in soon. But it would be at least twenty-four hours and another over-night stay. He recalled, with acute precision, passing out in the middle of Heathrow. He tried to blame it on hitting his head while getting off the plane, but Ros and Beth were having none of it.

"It's your fault I'm here," he reminded her. "Anyway, I'll be out tomorrow whether the nurses consent or not. I'll discharge myself, if need be."

"I want to go and have a sniff around Suleiman's flat," she said. "But I can't hold Harry off for long while waiting for you. Two days maximum, I think. That will give you enough time."

Lucas was thoughtful for a moment. "You know, the Russians believed the last thing a murder victim sees is imprinted on their eyes. Usually their murderer."

"I don't think that will stand up in a court of law, somehow," she replied. "Did they ever secure a conviction by looking into a dead person's eyes?"

Lucas laughed drily. "Probably!"

He watched as Ros pulled back her sleeve and glanced at her watch. "It must be almost feeding time at the zoo."

"Five-thirty, according to the nurse I spoke to this morning," he replied. "They give you a choice these days."

Ros' eyes widened in feigned wonder. "It's practically the Hilton, you lucky sod. No wonder you don't want to leave. Anyway, I'll leave you to it and see you at lunchtime tomorrow. Okay?"

He nodded and stretched himself up to kiss her goodbye.

Once more alone, he lapsed into thinking over the details. He tried to link it in with what little he could recall of the Baghdad bomb. Since he and Ros had arrived back in England the death toll had risen again. The nerve agent used would probably see to it that the toll kept rising for some time to come.

Still not hungry after the food poisoning from hell, he lay down to try and sleep. But the noise of the ward and chattering relatives intruded every time he closed his eyes. Turning over to that he was flat on his back, he looked up at the ceiling and went through it all again. Whoever sold that bomb to Isis, for whatever reason, he wouldn't be in their shoes for anything.

* * *

It looked like a poor man's Laura Ashley show home. Blank white walls, but with over-stuffed, chintzy armchairs and sofa. There was a gas fire fitted into the once much grander original fire place and a dado rail ran the length of the walls in the living room, dividing two shades of cream and white. Cold and unlived in, the service had at least stocked the cupboards for him. Something Nathan hadn't expected them to do and had already been to Tesco for that purpose. But it at least passed the time and kept him busy until Olly got out of work. He hadn't told him what happened; only that they had to stay in a new house for a while. Already he was braced for the argument.

While the kettle boiled, he inspected the bedrooms of the apartment. Spacious and clean, Beth had helped him make the bed already. But it was still unnaturally cold, carrying an air of abandonment in every room. No one lived there, yet he still couldn't escape the uncomfortable feeling he was intruding into someone else's home. It just wasn't his.

The ringing of his mobile phone startled him, causing him to swear out loud. But it was only Olly, sounding confused and disbelieving in equal measure.

"Where are you now?" he asked, pushing the yellowing net curtain aside. "It's number 31, just ring the buzzer and I'll let you in now."

But still Olly seemed to prevaricate, demanding explanations and dithering outside. Seemingly, he was struggling with the intercom system. Nathan rolled his eyes in a sudden burst of irritation.

"Just ring the damn buzzer, Oliver, it's really not that complicated. Number three and then number one, okay?"

He regretted his outburst immediately, but it seemed to have done the trick and the alarm rang. Getting his wits together, he opened the door and waited at the top of the stairs beyond their front door. As he suspected, Oliver was furious.

"You're late," Nathan said, sharply. "Where were you? I've been trying to call you."

Oliver frowned, pushing past him into the living room. "And you're in the wrong house so don't take your foul mood out on me. Your woman from Thames House managed to reach me okay; it was her who told me where to go."

Once he had barged into the living room, he turned a full circle with his squashed nose wrinkled in distaste. Upon that in-depth inspection, he took up complaining bitterly about the cold. Giving them both time to cool off, Nathan made a pot of tea from the recently boiled kettle. He hadn't had time to make a start on dinner and he knew Oliver could be like a bear with a sore head when hungry after a long day in work.

"Was it Beth you spoke to?" he asked, stirring the boiled water in the pot. Inexplicable tears welled in his eyes as the events of that morning sprung, unbidden, into his mind.

"No. I remember her from Ireland. It was your other one. Ruth, I think," Oliver replied, sounding as though he barely cared.

He had come to the door of the kitchen divested of his suit jacket, but did not enter. He merely watched Nathan stirring the pot with an incandescent anger in his dark eyes. "So, what's the story? Why are we here and not at home?" He sighed heavily, adding in an undertone: "What the fuck have you been up to now?"

Nathan turned away from him so he wouldn't see his tears. Bringing the tea pot with him, he carried on stirring and stirring without paying attention to what he was doing. Some of the scalding water slopped over the sides, burning his hands.

"Shit!" he yelped, whipping his hand away and dropping the pot. It smashed against the lino, sending the burning liquid perilously close to his feet. Nathan looked at the mess and the smashed ceramic and began to sob noisily. Choking and hiccoughing, he wrapped his arms around his middle and openly broke down. As he tried to kneel to start the clean-up, he was dimly aware of Olly's footsteps rushing over to him. Then two strong arms were around him, easing him down to the floor where he was hugged tightly until he had begun to settle once more.

With his head tucked under Oliver's chin, he began to recount what had happened and what it was that led to them being there. Still on the kitchen floor, Olly only let go of him to reach for a cloth to wipe up the spilled tea. But he listened in silence as Nathan divulged all that he was allowed to. By the time he had finished, he was reduced to sniffing noisily.

"You should have called me right away," said Oliver, boiling the kettle again. It was growing dark outside and they must have been talking for at least an hour. "I would have come to get you and helped get us settled into our new palace."

Nathan tried to smile, but couldn't quite manage it. "Sorry. I wasn't thinking straight."

Olly made a start on dinner himself, rooting through the fridge as he began rustling something up. Bacon they had in abundance, along with eggs and bread.

"Don't worry," he said, getting the stove going. "We'll think of something. It'll be safe enough for me to go back home every once in a while, won't it? It's you who's in danger."

Nathan had picked himself up off the floor and climbed onto a stool at the breakfast bar. "Olly, no. I don't want you taking risks. Not after what happened in Ireland."

"Bollocks," he concluded, with an air of finality. "I'll be fine."

* * *

"Visitor for you, Mister Carlton. Joseph Weston."

John Carlton looked up from his computer screen as his personal assistant peered around his door. She greeted him with a smile as she offered tea or coffee for him and their guest.

"No, thank you Sarah. Show the gentlemen in, if you please."

His smile faded as soon as she closed the door; the colour draining from his face. Before he came in, he quickly double checked the computer screen again before shutting the browser down. There was nothing on the news, adding to his already abundant concerns of MI5's growing interest in some of his associates. By the time he had pulled up a more innocuous looking spreadsheet on his PC, the other man had entered.

"Good to see you again, John," the newcomer greeted him, extending his hand across the desk. "How are things?"

For all he was worth, Carlton tried to look nonchalant. "Very well Joe, thanks for asking. What about yourself?"

Even the basic pleasantries were becoming laborious to him now. He wanted it all out of the way so they could get down to business. Which he did when Joe handed him some files from inside his suitcase.

"Your immediate problem has been dealt with, but there may be one more," he said, a note of regret underpinning the good news. "But, you should see this."

Carlton took the file and read the "top secret" notice on the front cover. He flipped it open to reveal a black and white photograph of a dark haired man. It was paper clipped to an A4 page containing a report about a bombing in Dakar, Senegal. He caught the year: 1995. Before he could connect them, more dots appeared in his head. None of them logically joined.

"Er," he said, glancing up at his colleague. "What's this?"

The other man smiled. "That's Lucas North," he answered. "And this is going to be so easy."

* * *

 **Thanks again for reading; reviews would be lovely if you have a minute.**


	4. A Shadow of Doubt

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thank you. Apologies for the slight delay in getting this updated, but life has been hectic.**

* * *

 **Chapter Four: A Shadow of Doubt  
**

Lucas walked through the hospital doors, welcomed by a broad morning light that retained the heat of a lingering summer. A warmth that bolstered his buoyant mood following his discharge and release back into the wilds of London city. At his side, Ros was talking low into her mobile phone in one hand and rummaging through her bag with the other. After a frustrating moment she tilted it towards him, pulling the zip fully open. "Keys," she mouthed the word to him, pointing towards the inner darkness of her shoulder bag.

Together they made their way through the car park, her still talking and him still rooting through the bag, drawing his hand out at random as if it were a lucky dip. Old lipsticks, discarded packets of gum and stubs of eyeliner pencils seemed to have swamped the keys and eaten them. As he continued the search he could just hear Harry's voice sounding from the other end of the line, half picking out what he was saying.

But soon the call ended and Lucas handed Ros the recovered keys to her car. "Are we heading to the Grid now?"

Ros shook her head and zapped the doors open. "Not quite. Get in and we'll talk."

Once inside, he watched as she turned the key in the ignition and the engine sputtering into life. Only when they were moving, rolling towards the exits, did Lucas breathe a sigh of relief to be away from that place. It wasn't exactly like being in prison, but being stuck on a ward full of sick people was the next best thing. _'But you're a sick person too,'_ Ros had brusquely informed him when he had voiced his concerns to her, the evening before. He felt she had somewhat missed the point. He watched the Germ Pit's reflection vanish in the wing mirror as they pulled out into the open road.

"So what's the plan?" he asked, once they were on the road proper.

"I'm taking you back to mine so you can rest up and get some breakfast," she said. "While you're doing that Harry, Ruth and I will be meeting the Home Secretary to brief him on the Carlton affair. Then you and I will be searching Suleiman's house looking for evidence of Carlton's involvement in the Baghdad bomb."

Although he had been hoping to get straight back to work, Lucas offered no objection on that front. His arm still ached from where the saline line had inserted and he hadn't eaten properly in over a week. But he still had his reservations.

"Haven't you got this the wrong way round?" he asked, before explaining further. "Shouldn't we be searching for the evidence of Carlton's dodgy dealings first, then bringing our case to the Home Secretary. Towers is going to want more than the word of an Islamic State asset."

He turned his gaze from the road ahead to Ros, who was momentarily focused on overtaking the car in front.

"That's what I thought," she replied, eventually. "But there's no harm in letting Towers know the man he's doing business with may not be Kosher after all."

Lucas shrugged and turned his attention back to the streets, all passing him by in a bit of a blur.

* * *

Ruth had her business head on. Hair styled and swept up into a neat coil. A navy blue jacket and skirt combo, the hems of which fell short of the knee by a good few inches. Sheer black tights and shoes heeled to the point of making them double as a deadly weapon of some sort. Harry leaned back against the wall, looking up and down the full length of her again. He had seen her that morning, but in the chaos of the hour hadn't had time to take it all in.

But as they lingered outside Whitehall, waiting for Ros, he could see her properly. A small breeze sweeping downriver troubled her hair, a few loose strands falling from behind her ear. He was unable to resist reaching out and tucking them back, a semi-legitimate reason to touch her face before etiquette dictated they keep their distance. He smiled gratifyingly as she responded to his touch, her hand softly covering his.

"Harry," she said, a note of gentle reprove in her voice. "We're at work."

Even as she said it a crowd swelled past them, disgorged from a double decker bus and obscuring them from view. Harry felt the corner of his mouth curl into a smile, a glitter in his eye not altogether a result of catching the sunlight.

"No we're not," he answered, at length. "We're off the Grid. Just waiting in a public space."

The leaves of the trees lining the pavements were bronzing in the approaching autumn. Every gust of wind now sending down another shower of orange and gold, swirling around Earl Haig mounted on his steed of bronze. In the near distance, Nelson's Column jutted sharply over Trafalgar Square, its long shadow falling in places Harry could not see. Meanwhile, Ruth met his gaze, her head tilted to one side as she regarded him in return. The blue of her eyes looked almost out of place in the seasonal change happening all around them.

"Here comes Ros," she said, her gaze shifting to just over his shoulder.

Their moment over, Harry straightened up and greeted his Section Chief warmly. "How's Lucas?"

Ros' brow darkened. "You know what he's like, Harry. They barely got the IV lines out of his veins before he was trying to get back to work."

They fell into step with each other as they entered the grandiosity of Whitehall. To Harry's relief, there was no waiting around involved and Towers was already expecting them. Seated behind his desk in the inner-sanctum of his private offices, away from the PA's and secretaries that thronged his outer rooms, seemingly twenty four-seven. Harry and Ruth nodded to the ones they were familiar with as they passed, picking up tea and coffee as they went.

Once inside, they all greeted the man himself in turn; taking seats lined up in a neat row in front of his desk. While they got settled, Towers removed his spectacles and polished the lens' with his tie, rubbing in small firm circles, allowing himself a clearer view of his visitors.

"Goodness, Harry, all three of you," he said jovially, pushing his specs back into place. "A veritable little tea party we have here."

Able to see them clearly, Towers' grey eyes darted from one face to another, paling – as he always did – ever so slightly as he noticed Ros in his presence. She sat there with her legs crossed and her arms folded across her chest. She was a no-nonsense stalwart at the heart of spin doctor central; a woman after Harry's own heart.

"We have some rather distressing intel on your newest business partner, Home Secretary," Harry said, opening up the meeting by getting to the point. "One of our agents was recently in touch with an asset inside IS-"

"Ah yes," Towers cut in. "I already know about this, Harry. There's little need to trouble yourself on John Carlton's behalf."

Harry was about to persist, but found the words momentarily lost to him. It was unthinkable that Towers was doing business with Carlton despite the allegations. Ruth, also, stiffened in her seat, a flinch that was barely perceptible. A muscle twitched in Ros' jaw, otherwise she remained perfectly still. She looked like a leopard steeling herself for the kill, Towers fixed in her eye like an unsuspecting buffalo blundering into her line of vision.

"You mean, you already know that Carlton sold a dirty bomb to Islamic State?" she asked, her flat tone betraying her incredulity. "The same dirty bomb that detonated and killed two MI6 agents a few days ago."

Towers looked apologetic as he opened the top drawer of his desk. Harry heard it rolling outwards, joined by the jolting and rattling of whatever was inside it, but Towers didn't take anything out for the time being. He seemed to have a change of heart and met Harry's gaze. He wore the same reluctant apology in his expression. All regret and sympathy.

"I was warned that this would happen," Towers said, opaquely. "I've had it explained."

Harry's brow knotted into a frown. "What do you mean, Home Secretary?"

"I mean I was warned that these rumours would be swirling," Towers explained. Finally, he reached into his desk and withdrew a file. A personnel file, or a copy of one at least. "Harry, has it occurred to you that the person responsible for that explosion is…."

His words trailed off, as though he really was surrounded by predators and was suddenly wary of proceeding any further down this particular track. Sensing a fight in the air, Harry leaned back in his seat, silently urging the politician to bring it on.

"And?" said Harry, challengingly. "What are you trying to tell us?"

Towers sighed heavily. "Well, that the person responsible isn't altogether closer to home? Don't you think it strange that the man responsible for the bomb in Dakar was also out in Baghdad-"

The rest of his sentence was cut off by Ros choking. Rarely did her composure break and Harry was relieved to see it was only a very brief lapse. Of more concern to him was the counter-allegation. He had to steady himself with a deep breath before clearing up any confusion regarding Lucas.

"That was one big misunderstanding, Home Secretary, as I told you at the time," he began, but his ire was rising now. "Lucas was duped-"

"But he's not Lucas, is he?" the Home Secretary cut in. "He's John Bateman. A small detail I believe you conveniently left out of your report."

Harry was aghast. "With your approval, Home Secretary."

Beside him, Ruth sat with her hands curled into fists. For a moment, Harry willed her to get up and punch the man, as she so clearly wished to do. Alas, his influence on her had not extended to open violence, as of yet. She merely remained silent, but he knew she was only collecting her thoughts to make a more reasoned intervention.

"With respect, Home Secretary, I was here when we reached this agreement," she said, finally. "In light of Lucas' long years of service to this country, eight of which – need I remind you – were spent being tortured in a prison cell in Russia, he was exonerated of this one transgression in his youth. I simply don't see what it has to do with Baghdad?"

Ruth was keeping her nerve where Harry's temper was fraying rapidly. Ros seemed beyond words, for the moment. So all rested on the shoulders of the Analyst.

Towers paused for breath. "Regardless of what happened in Senegal, it did show us that Lucas North is capable of planting a suspect device-"

"And where the bloody hell is he supposed to have gotten this dirty bomb from, Home Secretary?" Ros retorted, furiously. "Do you think he's got a plutonium refinement plant in the cupboard under his stairs? Or do you think he bought it off a bloke in the Tesco car park on Walthamstow Road?"

Before Towers could even recoil from the sudden attack, Harry threw himself into the breach.

"Not only that, but he also smuggled said dirty bomb out of the country and hid it on an aircraft bound for Baghdad, under Ros' very nose," he said, gesturing towards Ros. "We're not stupid, Towers. We would have noticed something amiss, don't you think?"

"Do you know, Harry, I really don't appreciate you taking that tone of voice with me," Towers rebuked, adopting an almost school ma'am posture.

Before Harry could make his utter disregard of Towers' feelings known, Ruth quickly tried to calm things down.

"I understand that, Home Secretary, and I apologise on behalf of my colleagues," she began, ignoring Ros' choked protest. "But you must also take into consideration that we have intel that suggests it was Carlton who sold that bomb to ISIS. There is nothing, and I mean nothing at all, to suggest Lucas North had anything to do with this attack. There's been no odd behaviour, no suspect meetings, nothing out of the ordinary that would suggest a rogue agent."

"What it comes down to, Home Secretary, is this," Harry added, having regained his composure. "Are you going to take the word of a businessman over the word of your own intelligence organisation?"

Although Towers looked beleaguered, he soon gathered himself and pushed the file towards Harry. It was a copy of Lucas' file kept at Thames House. It was nothing he had not seen before, but it contained all the details of the Dakar bombing, of which Lucas had been completely exonerated. Harry opened it on his knees and gestured to it.

"Home Secretary, you knew all this already," he said, completely calm now. "I kept you fully briefed on that situation as it developed – almost two years ago now. Lucas had no idea what was in that suitcase and we have proved to you that he did not set it off. He was seen leaving the Embassy on camera and we know it was remotely detonated by mobile phone by someone off site."

"But Harry, Lucas North still lied to you for over a decade," Towers countered. "You only have his word that he didn't know what was in that suitcase and it's not like he hasn't lied before, is it? Now that I have intel to suggest he was involved in the Baghdad bombing, surely you can see that I am forced to act."

Harry's heartbeat raced. "What do you mean by that?"

Before Towers could reply, Ros complained loudly that her phone was vibrating. "Excuse me, I have to switch this off." She took out her phone and started pressing touch-screen buttons in a rapid succession. It looked to Harry as though she were sending a text message. Moments later, she slipped the phone back in her breast pocket, apologising under her breath.

"Where is your proof that Lucas was involved in the Baghdad bombing?" asked Ruth, her tone calm again. She sounded confident, even. A manner that offered Harry a slim hope of an early resolution.

Towers nodded to the file on Harry's knee. Ruth picked it up and started rifling through the pages, selecting the only one that they had not seen before. A chat log, by the looks of it. Harry watched her brow darken as she squinted at it.

"Towers," she said, looking back up at the Home Secretary waving the print out. "This is from the deep web. It could have been anyone saying this stuff and Lucas' name isn't mentioned anywhere in it."

Ros was leaning over, trying to see what was on the sheet. But Ruth only pointed to the odd URL. A sequence of numbers and letters. Not like a normal URL that had a proper web address on it. Harry could tell, by the look on Towers' face, that he hadn't the faintest idea what the deep web even was, never mind how and why it was used.

"But if you read it, you can see they knew MI5 and 6 would be tailing the bombers," said Towers. "They clearly have inside information. Where do you think they could have got that from?"

It could have been nothing more than a lucky guess, Harry thought. It was no long shot. But he held back, studying the Home Secretary closely while the silence lasted. Lucas was being set up, he could see it from the start but his hopes of fighting it were diminishing fast. Was Towers believing it because he wanted to believe it? Or was there something deeper going on? They wouldn't be able to find out before the meeting's end, whatever it was.

"Home Secretary," he said, maintaining his calm tone. "This is not proof of anything. Anyone could have added this to Lucas' file and it certainly wasn't me."

"I did," Towers replied. "The log was handed to me by someone who is connected to neither MI5 nor Securitech."

Silence again. Anger had dissolved into a numb disbelief.

"So, you just expect me to hand Lucas over to face due process now? What is you want?" asked Harry, finally finding his voice again.

Towers looked regretful again. "Personally, I think he has a case to answer. Don't you?"

"I think we've already answered that question, Home Secretary," Ruth replied. There was more venom in her tone than Harry had ever heard before. Not even in their most heated of arguments. "All you have presented to us is scurrilous rumours and tales. Do you really think that will stand up in a court of law? Where's your proof?"

Towers drew a deep breath, meeting Ruth's gaze. "And where is your proof that Carlton sold the bomb to ISIS?"

All three of them fell into a mutinous silence.

* * *

Despite his half day, Nathan was up and about already. The horrors of the day before were still raw in his mind, plaguing him as he tried to sleep. Every time he did slip into unconsciousness, he woke up panicking minutes later, tangled up in the bed sheets and with Oliver holding him tight. _"You were having bad dreams,"_ he said, soothing him gently. He tried to get up at four am, but Oliver convinced him to try resting again. Dawn – like work – couldn't have come soon enough.

He prepared breakfast and served it to Olly in bed, before running a bath for a long soak. Then he could drop him off at work, come back to the safe house and read the papers at his leisure. He would even drop by the cat sanctuary for the Chairman's replacement, if there was time. But all that was cast asunder as the text message arrived while pulling into the car park outside Olly's office.

"Anyone interesting?" asked Oliver, eyeing the phone on the dashboard.

He parked the car and checked the caller display. "Shit!" he cursed low. "It's work. Looks like I'm wanted after all."

"Commiserations. Anyway, see you tonight."

They leaned in for a goodbye kiss before Olly exited the car. Once he was gone, Nathan looked at the phone again. A coded text message from Ros, marked urgent he was required to act fast. Switching it to hands free, he called Lucas and got the car moving again. Mercifully, he was already on the road when the message came through and not too far from Thames House. Less merciful was that Lucas wasn't answering.

He left the engine running while he ran into Thames House, making straight for the Grid. Once there, he went through the relevant lockers for the strong box mentioned in the message. Beth fired a few questions at him as he sorted through the right one, questions he was forced to deflect.

In the box was a legend. An emergency legend at that. Not one Lucas would normally use. With no time to question it, he pushed it down the inside of his jacket before exiting the Grid again. Back in the car, he drove over to Ros' house where Lucas was meant to be resting up. Within twenty minutes, he was pulling up in Ros' street and making his way up her garden path and hoping she was home.

While knocking on the door he called Lucas' number again, hoping the dual assault of door and ring tone would wake him. But when the first knocks drew no response, he took a backward step and looked up at the highest window for any sign of life. Finding nothing, he instead threw a small stone at the front window. It bounced off the glass, making more noise than damage to his relief. Eventually, it did the trick.

"What the fuck?" Lucas enquired, leaning out of the bedroom window.

"We need to talk," said Nathan. "It's urgent."

The older man frowned uncomprehendingly before slamming the window shut, cracking the glass. Moments later, hurried footsteps descended the stairs beyond the front door.

"Come on in," said Lucas, opening the door fully to admit him. "What's happened? Don't tell me someone else has lost their head?"

Nathan didn't move beyond the hallway, but opened his jacket to retrieve the legend.

"I got a message from Ros," he explained. "I've got to bring you this and get you out of London as soon as possible."

Among the fake driver's license and papers, was a passport under Lucas' new false name. Credit cards and bank details, even sports club membership cards. All adding to the authenticity of his new life. Lucas took it all in disbelief.

"Just what the hell is going on?"

Nathan could not explain it, either. He could only follow orders. "Ros said she would call me again soon. But I have to get you out of here."

He felt helpless, but Lucas seemed to understand the urgency of the matter. He nodded and disappeared back up the stairs, presumably to get fully dressed. To fill the empty minutes, Nathan returned to the car and started up the engine again. With the whole of England suddenly at his disposal, he had no idea where to head for. Musings which were interrupted by his phone ringing. He snatched it up quickly as soon as he saw Ros' name on caller display.

"Are you out of London yet?" she asked, without preamble.

"No, but we're about to get moving," he answered, feeling badly about not moving faster.

"Good," replied Ros. "Head north but not too far for now. I want to meet you both just outside London and explain everything. But it's urgent. Head for Essex for now and I'll get to you as soon as possible."

With that she hung up. But Nathan could hear raised voices in the background, Harry's chief among them. Detecting another crisis in the air, he made sure to keep the engine running until Lucas arrived. When he did, he noticed that Lucas was pale with worry.

"Right," he said. "Let's go."

* * *

 **Thanks again for reading. Reviews would be lovely, if you have a minute.**


	5. Onions

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story. It means a lot, so thank you!**

* * *

 **Chapter Five: Onions**

As far as safe houses go, it went. As far as its location went, Lucas only knew he was there. Somewhere between London and Scotland, but was definitely in the armpit of nowhere. He lit a candle, rather than run the risk of switching on the lights, and left it burning on the kitchen table. Meanwhile, Ros was boiling water over a camp stove, foregoing the kettle that silently rusted on the disused hob of the cooker that time forgot. It took forever and a day, but she persisted until they were equipped with two passable cups of coffee.

"There's no milk," she said, sounding almost apologetic.

Lucas couldn't care less about the milk. Or the coffee in general, for that matter. He'd been staring at it blankly ever since she put it in front of him. But the burning liquid provided a valuable source of warmth for his hands.

"So, what now?" he asked.

He'd had several hours to go over it, but it still didn't make any sense. However, one thing that repeatedly intruded on his thoughts was Harry's near complete silence. Neither call, text nor email had the Section Head sent him since his fleeing London that afternoon. To Lucas, it felt ominous.

"I'll stay with you for a few hours, but then you're on your own," answered Ros. Her manner was customarily brisk and honest. "None of the Whitehall lot must know we helped you escape. Surely you understand that?"

"I can't say I understand that. I can't say I understand any of this. I mean, the very minute I allow myself to think this business in Dakar is dead buried, like Night of the Living Dead it's suddenly back from beyond to bite me on the arse again, Ros." Lucas broke off his building diatribe and pushed away from the table. Losing his temper would help precisely no one, least of all one of the few willing to help him. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean-"

"It's fine," Ros assured him. "I'd be bloody livid if I were in your place. Just hole up somewhere discreet for a while and Harry will find a way to sort this out."

She showed a level of confidence he lacked since Russia happened. Eight years of waiting for Harry to "sort this out" while he was locked up in a cage with his bollocks clamped on permanent livewires. His stomach clenched as his current predicament breathed new life into dying memories.

"Where the hell will I go?" he asked, running a hand through his hair. "I can't just keep on running. And what about Harry? He must be feeling pretty disincentivised about all this right now. How many times has he had to do this for me?"

It was like a stray dog. Lucas fed it once, now the flea-bitten beast of Dakar just kept on coming back for more. Now it was eating him out of house and home and attempting to hump the neighbour's cat – metaphorically speaking, at least. But Ros still looked unconcerned as she sipped at her black coffee.

"Harry is doing all he can," she assured him. "But shouting the odds and slamming your fists on the table can only get you so far. He needs to cool off and gather his wits. Ruth was up to something as well. There was something in that file the Home Sec handed her, some chat log or other. God knows what it was, but it came from some dark recess of the internet known only by drug dealers, Paedophiles and Ruth Evershed."

Lucas raised a brow. "I always knew there was something funny about her. And that wouldn't be the Deep Web you're referring to, by any chance?"

"That's the one."

"She has no chance of decrypting anything found on the Deep Web, Ros. You know that, even if you've never used it. That's the whole point of it. It's just layer after layer of encryption, another layer added with every page you open," he said, pessimistically.

"There are other ways, Lucas. The thing is, the team probably have their heads together right now. You need to stay calm, keep it together and don't bloody unravel this time. Play by the rules and don't give the Home Secretary even half a chance to hunt you down-"

"If this is anything to go by, he's already doing that," Lucas interjected, gesturing to the bleak kitchen. "Otherwise, what is all this?"

"God, Lucas, will you listen?! Harry is holding them off. Just lay low, like we advised, and you know we won't betray you," she retorted. "The team is working to clear your name and I should be too."

She reached into the gloom at the side of her chair, where she had left her bag. Lucas' heart sank as she readied herself to leave, although he knew it was right. But as she pulled the bag over her shoulder, she stopped and caught his attention again.

"You need to be gone from here by morning, they'll have it under surveillance. Do you have anywhere else?"

"Only my Dad's house, up in Cumbria. It's on the market, but they won't know about it," he replied. "I don't think they know about it, anyway. How much of John Bateman's life do they know about?"

He made himself sound like he was two different people at once.

"If you do go there, don't get too comfortable," she cautioned. "I'll call you again when it's safe to do so."

Before leaving, she held his gaze for a long moment and kissed him. But after that, there was no delaying the moment of departure any longer. Without a further word, she left via the backdoor which Lucas promptly bolted after her. Then he was alone again, in semi-darkness with nothing to do but dwell on what was happening. _SNAFU,_ he thought to himself. Situation normal, all fucked up.

* * *

Nathan held his breath until he heard the deadlock click on the front door. Only then did he relax and gently nudge his way inside the dark house. Although only empty for a few days, it still carried an air of abandonment. As cold as the crypt, his breath clouded in the frigid air. Slipping a thin torch from his back pocket, he flicked the switch and directed the narrow beam of light over the floor.

A plate was left by an armchair, a book was left open on a small table. A stack of remote controls were scattered over the dining table, where flowers slowly wilted in a vase of green-tinged water. Photographs lined the mantelpiece and a crumpled TV guide had been tossed into a disused hearth. It was as though Sharaf Suleiman had just stepped out of the door.

"Are you in yet?" Tariq's voice sounded in his ear.

"I'm in," he confirmed, keeping his voice low as if someone might overhear. "Nothing of interest yet. I'll try upstairs."

The neighbours would know the occupant was dead by now. If anyone saw Nathan he knew he would be taken for a burglar. So he crept through the house and up the stairs with the silent stealth of a cat, careful to touch nothing and with his back pressed to the walls. Only the torchlight broke the darkness, lighting up painted white doors all of which were closed. Checking his gloves were in place, he tried the handles on every one he passed.

A bathroom and toilet came first, right at the top of the landing. Closing them silently, he carried on until he reached the master bedroom. He quickly found the mobile phone and a tablet. Now feeling like a burglar, he slipped them into the rucksack over his shoulder and carried on searching for anything interesting. Turning out the drawers, he aimed the torch at the contents: combs, coins, batteries and socks. Spare keys and toiletries. The normal detritus of life that accumulated unnoticed as the years rolled by.

"I've only got a phone and a tablet of some sort, so far," he said, still keeping quiet.

"Just keep looking," Tariq's disembodied voice urged. "Pen drives; mp3s, laptops. Anything at all, just bring it all in and I'll crack it wide open."

There was a whole box of flash drives in the top drawer. With no time to sort them all out, he tipped the lot – box and all – into his bag.

"Check under the bed," said Tariq.

He did so, but there was nothing there except long forgotten shoes and an electric fan. Letting himself into an office space, he collected a laptop and removed the hard disk from a desktop PC. There was a contact book he extracted just in case, but doubted it contained anything important. Once done, he got to his feet and picked up the torch again.

"There's nothing else, Tariq. Nothing that I can see."

Before he even finished the sentence, a notice board caught his eye. He crossed the office space to take a closer look, directing the beam of the torch at the notes still pinned there. Some were written in Arabic, which he disregarded. But, wedged into the bottom right corner of the board, was John Carlton's business card. On the reverse side, a phone number was scrawled in blue biro.

"Actually, Tariq, check out this number for me: 0751 191300."

With that, he slid the card into the pocket and ducked out of the room, hauling a ton of technology with him. He left via the back, careful to lock up after himself, and jumped the fence at the bottom of the garden. He landed softly on his feet in the alleyway out back and looked up at the dead street lamps.

"Okay Tariq, you can fix the lights now."

It only took a second before the lamps flickered back into life, but Nathan was gone already.

* * *

Ruth found the scrap of paper scrunched up in her coat pocket. Flattening it out on the lounge computer desk, she read over the chat log again. There was little there by way of straightforward clues, but the web address was still clearly visible. She opened Tor and drummed her fingers against the table as the connection was wired up and routed through some anonymous server on the far side of the planet.

Once in, she bypassed the search engine and typed in the address written on the paper. Rather than a standard web address, it was a sequence of numbers and letters which she input one at a time. By the time she finished, Harry was back from the Grid, where he had been shouting at William Towers over the phone. If shouting alone solved the world's problems, Harry would have achieved world peace and global unity by now.

"In here!" she called out, attention still focused on the screen. "Your dinner's in the oven."

Even when he entered the room she didn't look round. She was waiting for the mystery website to open.

"Towers is a prick," he declared. "A complete prick."

"I know, dear," she replied, absent minded. "Come and have a look at this."

Harry lowered himself down at her side, squinting at the screen. Hitman For Hire, read the header at the top of the page. "Ruth, I know I just called the man a prick, but don't you're taking things a little far?"

"No, silly," she replied, aiming a playful smack at his leg. "It was that onion address I found inside Lucas' file."

"Onion address?" he questioned, brow creasing in confusion. "You really have lost me."

Ruth looked from Harry back to the screen, wondering whether there was a way to hack the site. No doubt it wasn't a real hit man, but a contract killer had been brought in from somewhere. Even if only for the hit on Sharaf Suleiman. This site was part of the set-up on Lucas, she was sure of it. But for now, she had to dispel the cloud of confusion that was slowly consuming her husband.

"You know what the deep web is, right?" she asked.

"Heard of it," he replied. "Popular in countries where there's a national firewall, isn't it?"

"Among other things," she answered.

Demonstrating the point, she took a pencil from a stand beside the computer and turned over an old envelope. On the back, she drew an ice berg, its huge bulk beneath the wavy sea level and turned it towards him.

"The surface web, indexed by Google, is this bit here," she said, drawing an arrow pointing to the tip of the iceberg poking above the sea line. "The deep web that neither Google, nor any other mainstream browser registers, is this going on below the surface."

She drew a second arrow towards the bulk of the iceberg beneath the surface.

"Because it's not indexed by Google, it can only be accessed by a special browser that foregoes Google. Which is the Onion Router – or Tor to its regular users. The Onion Router not only allows access to hidden websites, it adds a new layer of encryption to every connection on every page that's viewed – hence the name, it's layers of an onion. So onion websites, like this one, can only be accessed by people who know exactly where they are."

It was the same encryption that made these sites, and the people who used them, impossible to track. It was what made the Deep Web so attractive to the criminal underworld. Ruth looked back at the screen, studying the details of her "hit man".

"What is this?" asked Harry, pointing to a symbol next to a number. A letter "B" with two vertical lines through it.

"coins," she answered. "A virtual, peer-to-peer, currency system. It's a fast, secure transfer that can't be hacked or traced. So, our friend the hit man here is charging 75,000 coins for hits in Great Britain and 25,000 coins for hits in the rest of the world."

Harry's brow was so furrowed it resembled a map of the underground. He was pointing at the screen of the computer, almost accusingly, dumbfounded. Not to mention the unpleasant shade of red creeping into his face.

"So … this chap here," he said, jabbing his finger at the screen again. "He's an actual, genuine contract killer who's advertising his services on the web-"

"No, Harry. It's a load of bollocks; all these hit men are fraudsters conning people out of coins." She tried not to sound utterly exasperated, but sometimes explaining technology to Harry was like teaching a chimp to play chess. It was only a matter of time before shit began to fly. "Someone's set this page up and is claiming that the 'hit man' behind it is our Lucas."

"How do you even know that?"

Ruth shrugged. "I don't. It's a hunch. Because it all fits too neatly. But think about it, there's this slip of paper left in Lucas' fake file and it leads straight to this fake website for some fake assassin. There's this chat log that's supposed to have come from said fake site and it points straight to Lucas."

"Yes, but we still have no way of proving this," he replied.

He was right about that, at least. She sighed heavily, shutting the Tor browser down and locking the PC. When she turned back, Harry had left for the kitchen and what remained of the meal she had prepared. Wearily, she followed him out there and came to a rest in the kitchen door.

"So, did you speak with Towers again?"

"He's adamant that Lucas is the one responsible for the Baghdad bomb," replied Harry, sniffing at the burned remains of his dinner. It looked as if the dog's day was about to get better, at least. "And he cannot be reasoned with. What's worse is that he's started dragged up Ros' past, too. The Yalta affair."

"What?" Ruth had been in Cyprus at the time, but she had heard all about it. "Harry, this is getting ridiculous. At this rate he'll be picking off Section D one by one. What the bloody hell will he make of our own respective histories should he ever even get a sniff of the truth?"

"That's why we need to act fast," he said, reaching for the wine. "Look, I'm getting an early night. Tomorrow will be another day in glorious paradise and we need to be prepared."

Ruth stood aside, letting him pass. She noticed then how utterly defeated he looked. That all too familiar, hangdog look of self-recrimination was back in his eyes. Drawing a deep breath, she prepared to follow him, mentally preparing herself to catch the inevitable fall out.

* * *

Lucas was out of the door in the hour before dawn. A mist was building over the surrounding fields, rolling down from the distant hills. The grass beneath his shoes damp with dewfalls. Still cold, he huddled inside his jacket and pulled his hood down low. A dirt track led between farmer's fields, stretching off into the distance. It was at least five miles to the nearest town. A journey he needed to make before morning was done.

He fished inside his pocket, looking for his new rail card. When he found it, he held it in the palm of his hands and studied the photograph again. Lucas North is dead again. Long live Andrew Marsden. After a brief glance back at the house he had stayed in, he shrugged his rucksack on and started walking.

* * *

 **Thanks again for reading; reviews would be lovely if you have a minute.**


	6. A Casual Dismissal

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story. It means a lot, so thank you!**

* * *

 **Chapter Six: A Casual Dismissal  
**

"And what do you want to be when you grow up, Harry?" The teacher was smiling down at him, catching him off-guard with her question. He had zoned out while the girl next to him, Lizzie Perkins, had regaled the class with her intention of becoming a hairdresser. He abruptly ceased using his compass to scratch his name into the desk, looked up sharply and hastily formulated an answer.

"A bus driver," he replied, with a lot more certainty than he felt. He didn't really know, of course. But bus driver seemed as good a plan as any. Yes, they had it made. Driving their shiny red buses all over town every day; imprisoned in a schoolroom every day, it seemed the epitome of freedom. That's what he would do, too.

Damn near fifty years later, with his gaze locked into that of an obstinate Home Secretary, Harry had to conclude he had more sense as a scrawny, bare-kneed five year old than he did as an adult. He could have been out there now, sat in his bus and trundling through the streets of his little home town. He'd be on first name terms with all the regulars and beloved by old ladies everywhere. He'd even pick them up outside Lizzie Perkins' hairdressers. Alas, he was not a bus driver; he was head of counter terrorism and section chief of Section D, MI5. Such is life.

"The thing is Harry, Myers was out there with North for the whole period of time in question," said Towers. He removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. A gesture of weariness. "And there's this Yalta business. It's not like she has a clean record herself-"

"Who does?" Harry cut in. "Who, in this service, has never doubled bluffed or bent the rules or played devil's advocate, Home Secretary? You show me this paragon of virtue and I'll show you a fucking liar!"

The Home Secretary flinched against Harry's tone. "Then this is symptomatic of a much wider problem-"

"Oh, don't start spinning me, Towers," Harry cut him off again. "You know as well as I that this all part of the job. If we didn't do the things we do, this country would be overrun with wannabe military dictators with one finger glued to the button, Communist agitators storming the palace and terrorists rampaging through the streets. You know it, but you seem to have lost the sense to appreciate it. All the while, my agents are risking their lives so you and others like you can go about steering this country as if it were your own personal donkey cart, in peace and stability."

He was exhausted with this fight already. There was no distance left to run. But he pulled back, forcing himself to draw a deep breath. Even Towers seemed to have backed down, giving rise to some small hope in Harry that his statement had broken through.

"Harry, please," replied Towers, hands held up in a placatory manner. "Don't ever think I under-appreciate the risks you and your agents take for this country. Actually, I like to think you know me better than that. But I also like to think you understand why I had to go over your head and act against Lucas North or John Bateman, or whatever his bloody name is. The fact is, Harry, he lied to get into the service and he carried on lying for over a decade. He could well be lying about Baghdad. North and Myers share a personal relationship that goes way beyond the platonic; she's too involved."

"I am no longer willing to discuss this, Home Secretary," said Harry, with an air of finality. "Ros Myers is on my team; she leads my team and she stays on my team until a day comes when she herself decides to move on. And only when that day comes. I mean, what next? Are you going to decide that Ruth really did murder the head of security at Cotterdam Prison and therefore she's got to go as well? Nathan once failed to pay a parking ticket, so maybe he's up to something too."

Towers sighed, averting his gaze in exasperation. "I knew you'd be like this, Harry. I knew you'd dig your bloody heels in. Are you being deliberately obtuse? Can you not see I'm only making these recommendations to help you and your team?"

No, he could not. "How is removing two of my best Agents 'helping', exactly? From what I can see, you've opted to take the word of a businessman over the word of your own security services. I call that a gross conflict of interest, Home Secretary."

"I'm launching an enquiry into the practises of Section D-"

"Oh, don't be so ridiculous," Harry interjected.

"I have no other choice," Towers insisted. "All Operations are suspended, pended further enquiries …"

The rest of the spiel was lost in a haze. Harry was numb as it all passed him by. Anything spoken now would see their meeting degenerate into insults. But Harry recalled Towers' predecessor. The ghost of Nicolas Blake rose again and nudged aside that wistful, would be bus driver, of a child Harry had once been. That day, he forced himself to look as the life drained from the disgraced politician's body. But the memories remained only in his head; he would never be so vulgar as to allude to Blake aloud. And Harry Pearce was not a man to issue empty threats.

"You could at least afford me the courtesy of briefing my team on the issue in person, Home Secretary," he said, getting to his feet.

To his relief, Towers nodded ascent. "Make it quick," he added, as caveat. "Their replacements will be in place by the end of the morning."

This was Jo's first day back on the team, he remembered dourly. At least she timed it well. Before he left, Harry paused at the door at looked back at Towers. A perfectly sensible man who seemed utterly under the spell of a highly dubious businessman.

"Do be careful, Home Secretary," he advised, for more reasons than one.

* * *

Ros dialled the number again, listening as the phone rang and rang. Voicemail had been disabled and, eventually, it rang off into silence. Directing an accusing look at the blank caller display, she pressed down hard on the power button and shut it down. Glancing up at Harry's empty office, she sighed at finding it empty and darkened. A lowering mood briefly halted as Beth handed her a file before moving on.

"Beth, bring Tariq over will you? I need a word."

While she waited on Tariq, she opened the file. On the first page inside, she found aerial shots of Lucas' father's house. All that could be seen was the roof, complete with missing slates, and the endless fields stretching out all around it. Nothing untoward, nothing out of place. But enough to begin a paper trail, at least. They had it on file and, to the best of her knowledge, Lucas was still heading there. She flipped over the page, going over the information inside with a fine toothed comb. Beginning in the mid-nineties, she read through the early years of Lucas North. Even after all this time she had no idea of what exactly he was doing in Russia at the time of his capture. But the file was sparse. An activity log that suddenly fell silent on the night of February 4th in the year 1999; a record that didn't start again until eight years later. The sudden plunge into an abyss made her blood run cold.

"Ros."

Tariq's voice jolted her out of her reverie. Hastily, she shoved the file aside and made room for the techie.

"I need a false paper trail," she said, fixing him with a hard look. "Last time I spoke to Lucas, he said he was holing up at his father's old house in Cumbria." She paused, noting the techies look of deep disapproval. "I know. But listen, I need to get an urgent message to him to warn him off. Then I want to lead the investigation team straight there so they can check the place out, put it under surveillance and then send you out there to undo all the damage – making it safe enough for Lucas to return."

He looked like a dog that had been thrown a juicy bone. "Seriously?"

"I've never been into stand-up, Tariq," she informed him, drily. "Of course I'm being serious."

"Well, Lucas is still checking his service provided dummy email account, but his phone's been dead all day," said Tariq. "So that's one channel of communication you can use to reach him."

That was all she really needed to know, for now. Motioning for Tariq to stay where he was, she turned back to the business at hand. While she waited for her email to load, her gaze drifted over to the opposite side of the Grid, where Ruth was captivated by something on her computer screen. She failed to look up as Ros silently willed her to make eye-contact.

"I'm contacting Lucas now," she explained, returning her attention to Tariq. "So here's what I'm telling him: don't go to the house; clear off elsewhere and don't tell anyone. I'm leading the investigation deliberately to the house just so we can trap them and disable their snares. Then I'll contact him through this email again to let him know when it's safe. Does that make sense to you?"

She turned towards him again, where he was reading over what she had typed. After a moment, he nodded his head, but leaned forwards and pointed to a screen.

"Ask him to contact you with a blank message from a clean phone as soon as he gets this message, just to make sure we're not wasting our time," he suggested. "Then delete this message from both outbox and drafts folders. Clear your web history and cookies, so no one within the department can track your online activities."

The geeks shall inherit the earth, she thought to herself as she followed his instructions. Once that was done, she let him return to cracking open the storage devices that Nathan had sourced from Sharaf Suleiman's home. A computer hard drive and several pen drives, amongst other things. Out of habit, she glanced round the Grid to see if he was still around now, but there was no sign of the Welshman anywhere. She was about to ask where he was, before the whoosh of the pods caught her attention, followed swiftly by Harry divesting himself of his coat.

Any relief she felt at his return was cut short by the thunderous look on his face. Steeling herself for the worst, she shut down her pc and got up to meet him.

"Come with me." His tone was terse as he placed one hand on her elbow, steering her away from his office as she reached for the door. "Not there." He turned to his wife. "Ruth, you too. Drop whatever you're doing."

Ros briefly turned to the Analyst, no longer sure of what to think. She merely paused, waiting for the other woman to catch them up before trailing after Harry, up the back stairs and up onto the roof space. Emerging under the clear blue skies after the subdued gloom of the Grid made her scrunch her eyes. Harry, meanwhile, paced to the barrier and glared out over the distant rooftops.

"We're all suspended," he snapped, expression contorted with a rage that had obviously been bottled up since he left Whitehall. "Suspended over operational procedures, pending further enquiries."

The news came like a kick in the gut. For a long moment, she could only return Harry's glare with her jaw slackened, attempting to make sense of it all. Only once the first shockwave washed over her did her thoughts fly to whoever could be passing all this information on? It had to be someone and she was certain it was no one within Section D.

"Someone out to get you, personally, Harry is no surprise," she said, acerbically. "But who has it in for you enough to come after your entire team."

"This isn't about Harry though, is it?" It was Ruth who cut in. Rather than merely defending her husband, Ros could see she was thinking it through and formulating a theory already. "Don't you see? Carlton's doing this. Carlton's pushing the Home Secretary. He's getting rid of us because he knows we're on to his bloody shady business dealings."

"So, Suleiman was right. Carlton sold Isis that bomb. But how the bloody hell do we prove it now? We need access to the Grid, we need the support of the Home Secretary."

Ros was attempting to unravel it all in her head, only vaguely aware of time ticking inexorably downwards. Something Harry reminded her of sharply.

"You need to go now," he said to her. "Towers is still banging on about Yalta, so be safe and meet up with us later."

"What about the others?" she asked.

"I'll tell them now," answered Harry. "Just go and try to find Nathan. Meet up with us at the George in two hours."

Gods knows they would need a drink, she presumed. She removed herself from the roof space, returning to the Grid to collect her coat. Not for one moment did she think it would be for the last time. As she left, her spare phone vibrated in her jacket pocket. A blank message from an unknown number. Lucas. She smiled, signalling to Tariq that their Op was still on.

"Remember what I said about the false paper trail?" she asked. "Do it now. There's not much time. I've got to go, but Harry will explain everything when he gets back."

Without waiting to see if he understood, she turned and strode towards the pods. At least now she would be freed up to track whoever was doing this to her team.

* * *

Nathan turned the business card over in his hands, memorising once more the biro scrawl of a telephone number on the reverse side. It alone revealed nothing, except the address of Securitech's headquarters. When he looked through the front window of the car, he could see the building itself. Imposing, glass-fronted and several stories high, there was no one on the front doors besides a lone uniformed guard. To be safe, he reached into the glove compartment and pinned an identity badge to his lapel. Nigel Fitzgerald. The alias made him cringe all over again.

However, as he went to get out of the car, someone else got in. A blonde woman of slim build, with her hair tied up in a ponytail. She beamed brightly at him as she got settled in the passenger seat. The identity badge on her own lapel gave the name "Jemma Price."

"Hi, you must be Nathan. I'm Jo Portman," she said, extending a hand.

Wide-eyed with surprise, it took a moment for the penny to drop.

"Oh! Yeah, sorry, I remember now," he replied, relieved. "I was meant to be covering your holiday but something came up."

"You could say that. I came back from the States with a husband and baby!" she explained as they shook hands. "Anyway, don't worry, Harry's made you permanent now."

"That was quite some holiday," he had to concede. His understanding was that it was a working holiday, but he decided not to press her on that at first acquaintance. Meanwhile, people came and went from the building he was meant to be watching.

"I bring bad news, I'm afraid," she said. "The op's off. We've got to meet the others down the George, then relocate to a safe house where we can be briefed in private."

Nathan frowned. "Away from the Grid?"

Jo nodded. "Which means it's serious. We better get going."

He was just about to get somewhere. He could even see John Carlton's car pulling up outside. But instead of tailing him, he started the engine again, pulling out into the northbound traffic. Rain had started to fall, smattering the windscreen and adding to his dour mood. His own phone had been switched off in anticipation of gaining access to Securitech's HQ and now he knew it would be full of missed calls from the bosses. Glancing into the rear view mirror, he watched at the HQ slipped away in the distance.

* * *

That night, Harry and Ruth lay side by side in bed. Restless and sleepless, they held on to each other closely. The lights were off and only the lamplight from outside permeated the chink in the curtains. There seemed to Harry to be little to say, other than to offer empty reassurances to her. Even her replies were robotic, going through the motions.

Eventually, he drifted off into a restless slumber. When he opened his eyes again, he was looking through a large windshield of a double decker bus. He could see his reflection in a large wing mirror, wearing a smart cap and dark blue uniform of London Transport. His heartbeat raced as he realised the bus was in motion while he was still reacting to his new surroundings. He regained control of the steering wheel, straightening the vehicle as they passed through built up streets of a town he had never seen before. But no sooner was he back in control of the bus, raised voices from the upper decks caught him at unawares. Thumps and banging as a fight broke out among the passengers sounded from the same place. Another man, a tramp with a bottle of wine in a brown paper bag started singing loudly. He was on his feet, clinging to the overhead rail and swaying dangerously from side to side.

The tramp ceased singing sharply. "This is a one-way street, Harry," he called out.

He was beyond caring. He turned to tell the tramp to sit back down, but had to double take as he recognised the man.

"Jesus, Home Secretary, what happened to you?"

Towers was almost unregocnisable. So too were the entire Government Cabinet who were occupying the seats behind him. The brawlers on the top deck were now fighting their way downstairs, causing the bus to sway. He didn't know how he knew, but he was certain two of the fighting men were Nathan and John Carlton. Ros might have been in there, too. Careering down the one way street, he sped past Lizzie Perkins' derelict hair dresser's salon. Then road petered out into a cliff-edge that seemed to come from nowhere. One minute on land, the next charging towards a plunge into the sea.

"Do be careful, Harry," the Home Secretary mocked, raising his bottle of wine in a salute. "Do be very careful."

They were the last words he had said to Towers. "Fuck you, Towers!" he called out, pressing down on the accelerator. No one else on the bus seemed to notice how close the cliff edge was now. Even the fighters carried on fighting. _Just keep driving_ , he thought.

Until Ruth woke him up.

It was still dark and Ruth was sat up in bed next to him, watching as he regained his breath. She was watching him through wide eyes made dark by the poor light, her arms holding him gently. Concern was etched in the lines of her face.

"Harry," she said, kissing his temple. "It's all right."

"I dreamed I was a bus driver," he said, shaking his head.

His eyes adjusted to the darkness, noting the pale smile on her face. "There are worse jobs," she pointed out.

"Not when they're packed with angry politicians and brawling spies," he replied, laying back down again. "If this does all go horrible wrong I could be a bus driver. And you can be my conductor."

"Yeah, sure. Sounds like a plan, dear." She lay back down beside him, curling up at his side. Despite the chaos surrounding them, he smiled as she drifted back off to sleep.

* * *

 **Thanks again for reading; reviews would be lovely if you have a minute.**


	7. Fight the Good Fight

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. So, thank you.**

* * *

 **Chapter Seven: Fight the Good Fight**

"It's not on the map, Ruth." Harry glanced sidelong as she flipped the A-Z on its head. Ruth had always had many qualities, but map reading would never be among them even if their destination was on one. Quickly turning back to the road, he slowed down as they neared a hairpin bend and the entrance to the farm seemingly sprang up from nowhere. It was why this place was chosen, all those years ago. You never noticed the entrance unless you were purposefully looking for it and only a large white stone marked the opening of the driveway- some sort of makeshift gatepost. "You know the maps upside down, don't you?"

"Of course!" she retorted, colouring slightly. "I'm studying the locale from an alternative perspective."

"The upside down perspective," he pointed out. "It won't magically reveal itself and I do know where I'm going. Trust me."

It had been a while. She was in Cyprus the last time he came here. He looked up the driveway, to where the farmhouse veered into view. The barns and sheds had been abandoned for so long now that the elements had brought down the roofs. Loose gravel crunched under the wheels of the car- a detail he remembered from his last visit. The porch was as he recalled it, too. Net curtains and a beige welcome mat by the door. A wind chime in the window and coloured glass beads. Homely looking, like any other farmhouse. But for the chemical and biological warfare bunker that was hiding in the basement.

He shut off the engine, parking to the hard left to leave room for the others as and when they arrived. "We never did feed the pigs."

"What?" asked Ruth, half-way through unbuckling her seat belt. "What pigs?"

He couldn't explain why the realisation of pig neglect made him feel so sad. "Connie kept pigs while she was here. It was all part of the front. But we forgot to feed them after she left this place. You know, when she came back to work for us."

Or were Connie's wretched pigs merely a front for her? Her betrayal still burned, when he thought about it directly. Harry could no longer tell. But they both stepped out of the car and breathed in the brisk, autumn air. All around them, the Surrey countryside rolled off into the distance, the trees burning amber as summer faded into autumn.

"Pigs are actually very intelligent animals, Harry. If no one fed them the chances are they managed to find a way out of their pens and went in search of food of their own volition," Ruth assured him, rounding the car and linking her arm through his. "Shall we wait for the others or take a walk around? I wouldn't mind seeing the place."

Harry quite agreed. Fastening his coat up, he set off around the side of the farmhouse and followed a beaten earth track. There was a tractor left rusting in a field, adding to the pretence that this was just another farm. It was always the little details that made the MoD's ruses so authentic, even if that same tractor had been rusting in that same spot for the last forty years.

"I wish we had a place like this." Ruth sounded wistful.

"What? Your own personal MoD Biological warfare bunker disguised as a hovel?"

"Don't be silly, Harry, you know very well what I mean," she chided. "Somewhere out of London. Somewhere in the open, like this."

"I want somewhere close to the sea, to be honest," he mused. Of all the places he had ever lived, none had been close enough to the coast.

They passed the sheds and barns, now devoid of animals. No bones, either. Maybe the pigs had escaped in time. Either that, or Connie had blasted the bunker's existence to her Russian friends and they had rescued them. It had crossed his mind that she had revealed its location. But from what he could tell no one had taken the blindest bit of interest in the place. Everyone else who knew about officially was now dead. These days, all the farm was was another Cold War relic rotting and forgotten, hidden in the placid English countryside.

Ruth's phone rang, cutting through Harry's inner thoughts and bringing their walkabout to a premature close. While she answered, they both turned back toward the farmhouse. But as he turned, he thought he saw a beady-eyed pig watching him from the bushes nearby.

"It's Nathan," she whispered to him, before returning to the call. "Where are you now? Okay, well keep going for about another two miles and you reach a sharp bend in the road-"

"Say's she who was holding the map upside down," Harry interrupted, loud enough for Nathan to pick him up. "You might want to upend those directions!"

"Shut up, Harry! No, Nathan, listen it wasn't upside down-"

"No, she was studying the locale from an alternative perspective," he cut in again.

Ruth said nothing, but fixed him with the coldest of death stares. "Nathan, you're almost here," she continued, firmly. "You'll reach a field with two horses in it: one white and one black. That's opposite a big white stone, about the same size as a badger. Turn left there, and you'll come to a long, narrow driveway. You'll see the farmhouse there."

She hung up the phone as they neared the farmhouse, the locks of which Harry had yet to pick.

Harry was looking at her askance. "I shudder to think where he's going to end up."

Ruth glowered. "It's not on a map, is it? It's not bloody signposted, either. Horses and badger sized stones were best markers I could come up with."

Secrecy had its drawbacks. But while the Grid was off limits, this was the best they would get. In the back arse of nowhere, no one would be watching them, no one would be thinking of them and, even if they were, they would never find this place. Meanwhile, as they reached the front porch again, Ros was pulling up in the driveway and leaning out of the driver window.

"Sorry, I got lost on the way here," she said. "Bloody Connie could have torched the place for all I knew."

"Everyone else is lost too, I think," Harry replied. "Jo has Tariq and Beth with her. But Nathan's on his own and could well end up in Timbuktu for all the directions he has."

While he talked, he picked the locks with a kit retrieved from his car. Only when the deadlock clicked back did he shoulder open the door and let them all in, just as Jo and her passengers finally appeared in the driveway. He breathed a sigh of relief, but opted not to wait around. Instead, he led Ros and Ruth inside.

Colder than the crypt, it was roughly as Connie left it – confirming his suspicion that no one really had bothered to check this place. There was an old newspaper folded on the arm of an armchair. He picked it up and checked the date. November, 2006. The crossword hadn't been finished and he still recognised Connie's handwriting, even after all these years. Photographs of her and her fictional family still adorned the mantelpiece over the hearth, where the ashes of a long dead fire still sat in the grate. Like the rest of the house, it really was just a shell.

"Hello!" A cheery voice called from the hallway outside, followed by a light knock on the front door.

"In here, Jo" Ruth called back.

They settled at the table in the dining room, or what passed for a dining room. Harry had tried the lights, but the electricity was off. There was a generator in the bunker down below so, despite his reluctance to go down there, he realised he had no choice. That just left the last man to arrive, the one working off the dodgiest of directions.

"Did anyone pass Nathan on their way here?" Harry asked the room at large. A question met with blank looks.

"We can't start without him," said Ros, taking her place at the table. "And we can't wait too long or it'll start to get dark."

But they needn't have worried. Nathan arrived last, almost half an hour after Jo, looking grouchy and huffing. "That stone was not shaped like a badger!"

Ruth sighed heavily. "I said badger sized, not badger shaped."

Ros forced a smile. "Well, now we've cleared that up I suggest we get down to business."

"I quite agree," Harry concurred, relieved to have them altogether at last. Only Lucas was missing and that was unavoidable. But, before he continued, he looked down the length of the table. It was as though the Grid's meeting room had been grafted onto his grandmother's lounge. He opened the proceedings with the understatement of the century. "I realise this is far from perfect, everyone. But under the circumstances, this is the best we can do. There is nobody outside this room who knows about this place. Jo and Ros, you've been here once before so that's something. Does Lucas know it's no longer safe to contact the Grid?"

To Harry's left, Ros nodded. "I managed to get word to him and the message was flagged as read. But he didn't reply to it."

"So, I take it we aren't sitting at home and casually waiting for the results of this investigation to come through?"

It was Jo who had asked the question, smiling and already armed with the answer. Harry couldn't help but applaud the timing of her return. He almost laughed.

"Bollocks to the investigation," Nathan chipped in. "We expose John Carlton and Securitech's dodgy dealings, we clear Lucas' name by default. So why don't we stick with the original plan and keep the company under surveillance?"

"We need to do more than that," Ros added. "We need to flush the bastards out. But how can we do that with no access to the Grid. Harry, can't you speak with the Home Secretary again? Get him to see reason. He can't just shut you out."

As if he hadn't already tried to make the Home Secretary see reason. He knew they had no choice but to go forwards under their own steam. Recalling Ros' paper trail leading them to Lucas' old home, he formulated another plan.

"Ros, you try to contact Lucas and the pair of you stake out the house in Cumbria. I want photographs of everyone who comes and goes from there. Tariq, I'm calling in on old friend and together you're going to be working on cracking the hard drives Nathan obtained from Suleiman's house. Nathan and Jo, I want you both to tail Carlton wherever he goes. Stay safe, both of you."

That was the problem with surveillance teams. They were still visible, wherever they went. No one was see through. The trickiest part was to remain unnoticed because being seen was a grim inevitability. And as disinclined as he was to keep working on the Home Secretary, Harry was forced into a corner. Towers was the only way out.

Finally, it was Ruth who concluded matters. "If anything happens, we regroup here. As far as we know, it's the safest place open to us. I know it's hard to find, but you need to memorise it. If we do need to regroup here again, make sure you're not being tailed."

It was routine stuff, but they needed everyone to be sure. "Any questions?"

Harry glanced around the table one more time, satisfied that they were at least inching forward.

* * *

Six months after quitting smoking John Carlton found himself lighting up again. _It's only the one_ , he thought to himself. But it was always just the one. Just the one suspect deal to keep the company's head above water, but fate found a way to send another wave to drag them back under. Now he was out in the rain, smoking with the office girls and huddling under the corrugated tin roof like a social outcast. His hands trembling as he struggled with a lighter, so much so one of the other puffing outcasts had to step in and help.

"Thanks," he mumbled, inching toward the back of the hut.

Even this was against regulations. There wasn't meant to be any smoking in any covered space which could be construed as "indoors".

"Fuck it," he said aloud. The comment drew strange looks from his employees, thinking he was talking to himself. Well, he had just talked to himself. He drew a deep breath, flushed in the face, and hastily apologised. No one offered any further discussion points, so he directed his gaze out over the car park at the rear of Securitech's HQ. A maroon Land Rover pulled up alongside the security barrier and the unseen driver flashed his ID card to the man in the booth.

Joseph Weston. Long time, no see. He had two choices: run inside and pretend he hadn't noticed the other man's arrival. Or, stick it out with the smokers and see what he wanted. The spineless part of him that yearned for a quiet life begged him to go with the former. The newly emerging dominant side compelled him towards the latter. This was survival, after all. He knew, in his heart of hearts, he would never have a quiet moment ever again.

Dodging through the huddle of employees, he stepped out into the drizzle to meet Weston half way.

"I've been trying to get hold of you all day," Weston greeted him.

"I've been busy," he replied through a stream of smoke. "Come this way; we can talk in private."

He led the way through to the back of the building, where the furnace and boiler rooms were. The Caretakers weren't around at this time of the day and none of the other employees had any business being there.

"It's good news, John. Not only have we dislodged a troublesome Spook for you, we've managed to take out his entire back up team."

Carlton frowned. "How did you manage that?"

"I didn't," Joseph confessed. "The Home Secretary did it for us. It seems Section D was on borrowed time all along. But don't think they've gone away. They'll still be gunning for you, wherever they are."

Carlton looked up, meeting Weston's gaze for the first time. "You make it sound like they'll have snipers lined up on the rooftops. Maybe it was better when they had them all grouped in one place. Maybe this has already gone much too far."

Even though they were alone, he kept his voice down. After one last heavy drag on the cigarette, he flicked it down a nearby drainage hole.

"You're not chickening out on me, John?" asked Weston, one brow raised sceptically. "You know one of them had been speaking to Suleiman before we got to him."

Carlton rolled his eyes. "Surely they won't take the word of a terrorist over the word of a respected businessman? Suleiman's dead, your boys saw to that-"

"But the other one, the one we saw him with, isn't and you can guarantee he's among those tossed out of MI5 on his arse," Weston cut in. "This isn't over yet, John. I promise you."

Carlton sighed heavily, looking through the dismal weather to where his car was parked near the perimeter gate. It always started out as something simple. Just the one. He always seemed to forget the past had a way of coming back to bite you.

"I made a mistake-" he cut himself off, realising too late how lame he sounded.

"Look, my sources inside the security forces tell me they're interested in some house in Cumbria. Lucas North's father once owned it. I'm going to send some of my people there too, just to keep an eye on things. In the meantime, keep an eye on things here. They're bound to be after you."

Carlton shrugged, shaking his head dejectedly. "Whatever you say."

Unable to take it anymore, he turned and trudged back towards the building. Business never stopped, even when it was thin on the ground.

"I'll be in touch, John," the other man called after his retreating back.

He didn't bother turning around.

* * *

Nathan brought the car to a crawl as he passed the company's HQ again. He took his eye off the road for just a fraction of a second to get a good look at it. Large, imposing and grey was the only impression he could really form from this distance. He wouldn't be able to blag his way inside, nor access the internal communications. He wouldn't even be able to sneak a quick tap on the phone and listen in from a distance. Deprived of the Grid and all its technological wonders, it felt like they were sailing down shit creek without a paddle. He drew to a halt in a layby opposite the headquarters and slumped down in his seat.

"We might as well just go home and lay in bed all day," he grumbled to Jo. "For all the good we're doing here today."

"Do you always give in this easily? You're supposed to be a spy," she replied, her smile taking the sting from her rebuke. "Look, there's a van load of cleaners pulling up in the driveway now. What do you think of them?"

Nathan watched them hopping down from the open rear downs of a large van. Their blue pinafores were highly visible in the fading light and drizzling rain. Some wheeled floor buffers, others carried mops and buckets. The one in charge wore a huge ring of keys at his hip. Keys both Nathan and Jo eyed hungrily.

"Oh, I like that," said Nathan. "But we haven't got time to sweet talk one of them into working for us."

"Mmm," replied Jo. "One way in is hitching ourselves on to that lot. They're cleaners; casual labourers that even the supervisors rarely try to keep track of."

"And they're invisible," Nathan added, leaning back in the driver's seat. "Well, at least no one pays them the blindest bit of attention."

"Exactly. I can do it. All I need to say is that I'm a new mum looking to return to work, preferably in the evenings to suit baby time and casual. It's within a hair of the truth, but not quite there."

Nathan smiled as he listened to her advice. "If that fails, everyone has their price I suppose."

"It won't fail and we've got to try. For Lucas' sake, if not the whole team's."

Either way, they wouldn't be able to do it that evening. He started up the engine again and pulled out of their parking spot, making a note to return there again in the morning. Their plan needed refining, if they were to make the most of their only opportunity.

* * *

"You look tired, Harry." Ruth's voice was full of concern. She had that look in her eyes; that silent pleading.

"I need more wine," he replied, reaching across the dinner table for the bottle.

He felt almost nostalgic for the times he had been booted off the Grid and had to rely on stolen meetings for contact with Ruth. But that was before they were married; when they were just colleagues tip toing around each other. Looking back now, it felt like a different lifetime. Now, if he was under surveillance, she would be too and it would raise no particular eyebrows.

"Do you remember that time I met you on the bus?" he asked, half smiling. "It was years ago, now."

Her smile matched his own. "How could I forget that? You're a bit more than just my boss now, though."

She put down her own wine glass, nudging her empty dinner plate away as though it were an obstacle between them. The lamplight was low, unobtrusively nudging aside the darkness of the night. It was that precious hour when they had each other all to themselves, with no Grid business getting between them.

Meanwhile, Harry was still thinking back to that night on the Grid. That same wistful longing closed over him once more. Did he know then that what he felt for her extended beyond just 'colleagues'? He could no longer remember, but a softness had opened up in him. A softness that could yield a little further, allowing her to discreetly inch her way inside and take up residence beneath his skin.

"I think I knew I loved you by that night," he said. "But I can't pinpoint the exact moment I knew. Maybe that's awful, but it's true."

"Why would it be awful?" she asked, brow creasing. "It's the best thing that ever happened to me."

"But you could have it so much better," he stated. "What you were saying this morning, when we went to that farmhouse: about wanting somewhere quiet to live."

Now that he'd brought it up, she looked bashful and apologetic. "I wasn't dropping hints, Harry-"

"I know that. I know you were just making conversation; opening up possibilities," he quickly clarified. "But don't you think it would be perfect? If we were no longer doing this? Forgive me if I sound bitter, Ruth, but I have devoted my life to the protection of this nation. Willingly, I might add. But right now I'm feeling all our efforts are a little under appreciated."

On the way back from the bunker come farm, he found himself wondering what the bloody point was. What was the point of him risking other people's lives if the precious intel they gathered was simply going to be cast aside and ignored whenever it suited. It wasn't just his ego, it was his morals and ethics and principles that no longer seemed relevant.

Ruth laughed. "You couldn't retire, Harry. What would you do all day? You'd be bored out of your skull and if I followed suit we'd tearing each other's hair out."

"But, I'm being serious. Why should I go on fighting the good fight if all that's going to happen is people die and I provide the scapegoats? It's futile and pointless and if my people are going to die, then I want better reasons than that."

While he vented his frustrations at the situation, Ruth had turned serious again. "But it's times like these that keep you going. You know that, really. It's what drives you; it's what's kept those fires burning. Like a student who's never lost that sense of righteous idealism. Do you think you can let that go, at your age, and resign yourself to digging the bloody garden for the rest of your days?"

The image of their back yard flashed through his mind. The overgrown grass, the blank bits where the previous owner grew some form of bush or plant. He tried to picture himself hunched over some similar form of bush, pruning and digging while not giving a flying fuck whether any of it blossomed or not. Knowing she was right only made him even more depressed.

"The looked on your face says it all, Harry," she pointed out. "Just keep on fighting the good fight. The alternatives just don't bear thinking about."

* * *

 **Thank you again for reading. Reviews would be lovely, if you have a minute.**


	8. Back to Basics

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story. Thank you very much!**

* * *

 **Chapter Eight: Back to Basics. **

Ros stepped off the train and onto the deserted platform. Had she been living in the age of steam, she supposed, it would almost have been romantic. Dragging her suitcase behind her, she made her way across the lone platform and into the station itself. It was only seven in the morning, meaning she had avoided the rush hour by at least two hours. Or whatever it was that passed for a rush hour, this far from a major town or city. But she had no complaints about the lack of people, given what she knew she had to do next.

With the station being little more than a glorified hut, she found the gents near the exit and facing out over the street outside. After casting a furtive glance over her shoulder, making sure no one was around to see, she ducked inside the Gents' and locked herself in the end cubicle. _'The glamour of being a spy,'_ she thought as she became engulfed in the unique, sour urine smell that was universal to all men's toilets.

She proceeded to undress and change into a fresh set of clothes taken from inside her suitcase. Clean blue jeans and a cream coloured blouse that had become rumpled on its long journey from London to Cumbria. She swept her hair up into a neat bun, pinning it in place with bobby pins retrieved from her make up bag. She didn't even know why she was doing it. It wasn't as if any unsavoury characters had tailed her all the way from London to the frozen north. Even if they had, would a change of clothes really be enough to throw them off the scent? Either way, she couldn't break the habit of adhering to the spy's handbook, regardless of how false the sense of security.

Although reasonably presentable again, she still wasn't done with the Gents'. Pushing the suitcase out of the way, she then lifted the lid of the toilet cistern. Inside there was only water and the usual mechanism of a functioning loo. Having drawn that blank, she replaced the lid and searched elsewhere. Under the bowl, behind the U bend, and even probed the toilet roll holder with her fingers. There were only so many places to conceal anything in so small a space and turned up nothing. Becoming increasingly concerned, she found herself wondering what to do next. The prospect of searching every cubicle appealed as much as backstroking through acid. Exasperated, she lowered the lid on the toilet and sat down, thinking what to do next.

It was there that the graffiti caught her eye. Like all public conveniences, the back of the door and walls were a patchwork of faded slogans and doodles. Declarations of love mixed with insults and football club allegiances. Terry is a wanker and I love Lucy. The citizens of Pompeii had nothing on the good people of Cumbria. Some were scratched into the paintwork, others scrawled in stubby pencils. Most of it aging, fading to grey. But on the back of the door, fresher than all the rest, was one that caught her eye. To the casual observer it was just another coded missive. "Dragonfly loves Range Finder, 4x4".

Ros got back to her feet and traced her finger over the letters written in blue felt pen. Four by four. She thought of the numbers and turned to the tiles on the side wall, the one that faced out onto the street. The partition wall was not tiled at all. Fourth column, fourth row down. She selected the right one and dug her nails into the loose edge. Prising it from the wall nearly broke a nail, but it fell loose after a moment's working. On the back of the loose tile a small scrap of rice paper was taped. She smiled as she picked it off, careful not to tear the delicate material.

"2pm, War Memorial, West Link Cemetery garden of remembrance."

Time and place committed to memory, she took a lighter from the pocket of her jacket and set the rice paper alight. Then it was dropped into the bowl of the toilet and flushed away. She had seven hours to kill and started by getting herself out of the Gents' toilets. The next hour she would spend disinfecting herself after searching a public loo. After that, Cumbria was her oyster.

* * *

Although an eminently practical man, Harry had refused point blank to sleep in Connie's old bed. The thought alone filled him with an almost supernatural dread he didn't know he possessed. It was as though the act alone would resurrect all the dead traitor spooks who had masqueraded their way through the doors of Thames House. As such he and Ruth spent a largely sleepless night on the farmhouse's kitchen floor, warmed only by a threadbare blanket and an old stove. A door in the kitchen led out into the back yard and, more than once, Harry was awoken by the sound of someone shuffling around out there, whether trying to get in or not he couldn't tell. If he'd had his gun he would have fired off a few rounds through the door.

"You're imagining things," Ruth had said, when he woke her up. "You're too used to the city; go back to sleep."

"There was definitely something – or rather, someone – out there," he insisted, come the morning. "Given the circumstances, I don't think we can be too careful."

But he could see she thought he was merely imagining things. She busied herself with making tea with the new cups and kettle they had bought, then opened the back door while the water boiled. He watched her as she stepped outside, keeping her eyes to the ground.

"There's no tracks through the mud," she said, looking back over her shoulder. "You were probably just dreaming again."

Although still dissatisfied, he let the matter drop and helped fix breakfast. For her part, she seemed to sense the effect their largely sleepless night was having on him and refrained from going on about it. But when he discreetly glanced outside himself, he could see she was right. The door opened up onto a grim, wet morning full of grey skies and rusting machinery that had been used for precisely nothing. Hot tea and buttered toast revived them somewhat, bringing them to the point of easy conversation. Only to have that disrupted by the doorbell ringing, alarming them both.

Harry turned towards the door, where a nebulous fuzz of a man could be made out through the frosted glass of the porch. He frowned at the distortion, doubtful as to whether their only expected visitor would be as early as this.

"Harry, who on earth is that?" asked Ruth.

"I told you I wasn't imagining things," he retorted, almost gratified.

Ruth looked askance. "Yes, because burglars and government sneaks are well known for knocking. I thought you were a spy?"

He was already back on his feet, wiping his hands on a tea towel while the doorbell sounded again. Frowning, he set off down the narrow hallway and lamenting the lack of a spy hole in the door.

"Harry, it's only me!"

Harry breathed a sigh of relief as he opened the door, finding Malcolm on the doorstep. He stood aside, giving him access and resisted the inexplicable urge to hug the man. Instead, they met each other's gaze, a look of resigned exasperation on the other man's face. It was a look he had seen last in the face of his own mother, a long time ago.

"What have you gotten yourself into now?"

Harry was almost affronted. "Nothing. But tell me, you weren't here early this morning were you? About three in the morning early, I mean."

Malcolm shook his head. "I only just arrived. Took me an hour to remember where the place was, to be honest with you."

While Harry absorbed that, Ruth was clattering about the kitchen.

"Hi, Malcolm!" she called out. "Lovely to see you again, come on in."

He watched as Ruth greeted their old colleague with a kiss before returning to them. Outside, pallid rays of sunshine were being to break through the early winter gloom and it felt a shame to cast the sunshine aside now. But while they made fresh tea, Harry had little choice.

"Basically, the Home Secretary is about to grant an enormous contract worth millions to a businessman who is also using his company to supply ISIS with dirty bombs. When we furnished the Home Secretary with this gem of information, he decided instead to dismiss Section D, with Lucas' unfortunate past being used as the catalyst for shifting us all."

"Well, that's gratitude for you," Malcolm retorted.

Malcolm always did take these things to heart, but Harry refrained from repeating his old sentiments about loyalty and dogs. Because now, Harry was unable to deny that he was disappointed. He couldn't pretend he hadn't expected better of William Towers.

"We need your help with this lot," Ruth added, hoisting a rucksack onto the kitchen table.

Inside the rucksack were various flash drives and computer hard discs. Harry would have had a go at it himself, but he still couldn't wrap his head around the fact that information wasn't physically "written" on the tendrils of a PC. It wasn't like a book he could crack open and read at will. Meanwhile, Malcolm was picking through the contents and holding them up to the light as though checking for authenticity.

"Will you be able to do it from here?" asked Harry. "There's all sorts of equipment downstairs in the bunker." Almost as an afterthought, he added: "And Tariq, of course. But he's our new techie, not strictly speaking a piece of equipment as such."

"They came from our asset inside ISIS," Ruth explained. "An asset murdered not long after speaking with his handler."

While Malcolm pieced together the backstory, Harry withdrew to the side lines. The way ahead remained fuzzy in his own mind. Deprived of the Grid and a visible enemy, they simply lacked the tools they not only needed, but relied upon. He looked across the table, to where Malcolm was sorting through the gathered storage devices and hard drives, remembering the conversation he had with Ruth about retirement. _This was what retirement from MI5 really looks like_ , he thought to himself. There could be no escape.

"What we really need is a way to listen in at Securitech's head office," Malcolm said, replacing the devices in the bag.

"Yes, but off Grid how can we do that? We need to get the bugs inside, but they're back at Thames House. We could use some if we had a stash secreted away somewhere, but that would be highly illegal," Harry pointed out, fixing Malcolm with a knowing look. "Unless, of course, it was for a private collection…."

"It's funny you should say that, Harry, because I might have one or two tucked away somewhere."

Both Harry and Ruth were smiling broadly.

"And we have the necessary devices to listen in downstairs," said Ruth. "But, there's something else I need to do, and I badly need internet for it."

"Simple enough," Malcolm assured her. "Just get a mobile broadband plug in and I'll tinker with it to allow you unlimited access."

With that settled, Harry reached for his car keys. "I have to go back to the house," he explained. "There's something I need."

* * *

Ros found the cemetery easily. She remembered it vaguely from her last trip to Cumbria, but it all returned to her once she was back in locale. The old rectory, once home to Lucas and his family, was still there and still boarded up. Even the field with the lone pony in it was still the same. The animal looked healthier now, as it cropped at the grass still thick from the summer sun. But she decided against leaving her hire car outside, instead driving it all the way up to the nearby church that now lay derelict and abandoned. By the looks of things, John Bateman senior was the last Minister to take charge of this particular church and rising secularism had sounded its death knell.

The cemetery itself was broad and flat, sprawling away from the main road and out into the countryside. The horizon made jagged by the jutting monuments and tombs that lined up in formation in neat, long rows. She paused by the entrance gates to scan the horizon, making a note of the central war memorial. But the only other people she could see were elderly couples shuffling between stones and a lone dog walker.

The garden of remembrance was separated from the main body of the cemetery by a stone wall. An arched rose trellis formed a fragrant entrance, through which she stepped to find herself in a neat green lawn punctuated by identical white headstones. She followed the path to a set of steps, an incline in the ground marked by a manmade waterfall with a wooden bridge crossing it, leading to a veranda. The inside of the stone perimeter walls was studded with bronze plaques, the dead whose bodies were never located.

Lucas was waiting for her under the veranda's lattice roof. The flowers and honeysuckle that normally decorated it had withered and died with the season.

"You got my message then?" he asked, rising from a bench to greet her.

"Just about. How're you? We've been worried about," she said, then corrected herself. "I have been worried about you."

He looked so unkempt she almost failed to recognise him. Unshaven, wearing several layers of clothes and smelling like he hadn't had a bath in a week.

"Have you been hiding out with the homeless?"

"Not far from it," he replied, as they settled on the bench again. "I broke into my Dad's old church and have been sleeping in there. I've set up surveillance cameras outside the house and can keep an eye on things on a monitor set up in the church."

Ros frowned. "It has power?"

"It has a generator; I brought the monitor from home. The point is, I can watch from afar there. But, so far, nothing doing. No one's been there; no one's been parked outside. Not so much as a stray dog hanging around. Did you plant the paper trail before you left the Grid?"

"I did. Tariq even helped," she confirmed. "But it's only been a day. Give it more time; they'll be here eventually, they won't be able to resist the urge to come sniffing around. Meanwhile, Jo and Nathan are tailing John Carlton. I think they've found a way in with Securitech. But I wouldn't get your hopes up."

They fell silent for a moment, looking out over the squat white headstones. Their very identicalness played tricks with her vision, making her go cross-eyed. Sheltered behind the stone walls, only a small breeze troubled them where they were. But it was still bloody cold and both of them huddled into their coats and sat close together for shared body warmth. She turned to look up at Lucas, who kept his gaze trained on the lawn, his eyes narrowed on the far distance.

"With the Grid off-limits, where is Harry gathering everyone?" he asked. "How can he do anything?"

"You know how Connie was taking care of some bio-warfare bunker in Surrey?" she asked, rhetorically. "It was disguised as some farmhouse and only a few people know about it. Anyway, Harry's setting up there and Malcolm's been drafted back in to help with the Op. If things don't work out here, then I'm to take you back there."

Finally, his hunched shoulders dropped and he looked a little more relaxed. "Thank god for that. I thought I'd go spare being left up here on my own. Especially with the house being out of bounds."

He was supposed to have sold it, but never got around to arranging things. Inwardly, she wondered whether he really wanted to let go of the last trace of the person he once was. Now he was hanging on the shell of his own childhood, letting to run to ruin deep in the ignored countryside. Whatever Lucas' true feelings about the place were, Ros was going to let him have them. John Bateman hadn't been a bad person, just a lost one. One that had no place being used as a rod for his back now.

Ros drew a deep breath and stood up again. She turned to face Lucas, who was still sitting on the bench with his left leg crossed over his right knee and hands buried deep in his pockets.

"Come on," she said, extending her hand towards him. "Come and show me your new surveillance suit."

His gaze met hers and he raised the ghost of a smile. "Sounds like a plan."

Instead of taking her hand, he linked his arm through hers and, together, they set off down the path. As they strode purposefully along the path between the graves, Ros noted the same lone dag walker still skirting the perimeter of the cemetery. The elderly grave visitors were gone now, leaving the place almost devoid of the living.

"Was he here when you came?" she asked.

"That dog walker? I don't think so. It's probably nothing."

He was probably right; but she couldn't shake her feeling of ill-ease.

* * *

Nathan held his breath as the automatic doors slid open. Having been outside in the darkness, the neon lit reception of Securitech was almost blindingly bright. Before setting foot inside the place, however, he glanced left to where Jo Portman was making small talk with another cleaner. Their new "colleagues" were milling around in a tight huddle, waiting for the last of the office workers inside to vacate the premises. He still felt completely out of place, like everything had happened much too fast and sought solace in keeping strictly to himself.

It seemed shocking to him that Jo had simply walked up to the foreman of the cleaners and just come out and asked if they needed extra help. But he had never realised just how literal 'casual' labour could be. However, as a result of her brash front he himself walking freely into the offices and HQ of Securitech.

"Hey," she said, catching up with him in the reception area and taking him aside. "Remember, all we're doing tonight is getting a feel for the layout. We'll be back tomorrow night with the stuff we need to plant. Okay?"

He was still nervous, but managed a nod. "Sure. But if we see anything of interest, surely we can take a few snaps for evidence?"

Jo seemed to be thinking about it. But eventually she nodded. "Just be careful. Don't disturb anything, make a note of where everything is. Try and remember it."

"That's what I mean," he replied. "Why can't we just activate one of our discreet cameras and film as we move around the building? Then show the footage to Harry and we can discuss where best to place everything."

Normally they would have floor plans, more secure ways of getting in and possibly an observation van hidden outside. Under these circumstances they were on their own; no safety net and no back up.

"Good idea, actually," she said. "Just make sure it's well hidden and try to remember everything anyway."

Before long, they were forced to separate again. With no idea of where to go, Nathan simply followed the person in front. They collected cleaning materials from a storage cupboard on the ground floor, located behind reception. Under the reception desk was a monitor displaying CCTV images both from outside and the other floors of the building. For now, he was forced to pass it by without a second glance.

"Are you new?" the girl he was following asked.

Jolted out of his own thoughts, Nathan had to think before he answered. "Er, yes. Sorry, is it that obvious?"

The girl smiled, offering her hand to shake. "Partner with me then, I'll show you around."

Blessing his good fortune, he readily agreed with the suggestion.

"Do we have to clean all of the offices in here?" He made it sound as if he was merely complaining about the workload. But what he really wanted to know was whether they would have unfettered access to the entire building.

"I'm afraid so," she informed him. "The only one we sometimes leave is the Managing Director's office. He sometimes works late and doesn't like to be disturbed. I'll tell you I see him leave, then it'll be safe to go in there."

Nathan smiled. "That'd be a great help, thanks."

He let the girl's chatter wash over him as they methodically worked their way through the building. Only three floors, but the one he wanted was at the top. John Carlton's office was out of the way of the others and Nathan knew that what they wanted would be in there. By the time they reached it, the door was closed and the Venetian blinds drawn down on the window. No too dissimilar to Harry's office, it overlooked another office space in which open desks were lined up in a rough formation.

"I think he's still in there," said the girl. "Best just empty the bins and wipe the desks down for now. I'll go and get the vacuum."

Maintaining his cover, he got to work as best he could. He went from desk to desk, upending waste paper bins into a large black bin bag, while glancing at John Carlton's closed office door roughly every two seconds. He must have been halfway done by the time it opened and the man himself stepped out. Nathan carried on working, but switched from emptying the bins to wiping the desks so he could pause and watch his quarry. Carlton had a briefcase under his arm and was talking quietly into a mobile phone with his free hand. Ever so briefly, the Managing Director met Nathan's gaze, frowning just slightly before looking away again.

Unable to resist, Nathan closed in the office as soon as Carlton had passed out of sight. But before he could go in there, the girl he was working with appeared again trailing a vacuum cleaner by the nozzle. He had to stop, force a smile before going any further.

"I just saw him leave," he said, before quickly feigning ignorance. "That's the MD's, isn't it? I can go in now, if you like?"

"Let's finish this first and then we go in together once the office is done."

The next night, he knew it would have to be him and Jo up here alone. For now, he had no choice but to go along with his work mate's instructions. Frustration concealed behind a willingness to please, he returned to his wastepaper bins. All the while, acutely aware of the promised land that lay beyond John Carlton's office door.

* * *

 **Thanks again for reading; reviews would be lovely if you have a minute.**


	9. The Guardian

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story. Thank you.**

 **In reality, I know very little about hacking websites. So apologies for any oversights or errors in Ruth and Malcolm's methods here.**

* * *

 **Chapter Nine: The Guardian  
**

Ruth had never been inside the bunker before. The last time they needed to avail themselves of its facilities she had been in Cyprus, living a different life altogether. It all seemed so long ago as she remembered that blimp of time. Longer still, as she descended the spiralling stairwell that led into the cold steel and concrete box beneath the farmhouse. Her footsteps echoed, making the place even more ominous. Nor was there a light switch in any obvious place. But light emanated from beneath a closed door, just enough to guide her as she made her way over.

They may have forgotten to feed the pigs after Connie left, but it looked as if the MoD had been methodical in stripping the place bare. She found Malcolm alone in a bare, grey-walled room with a large glass window looking into another grey room identical to the one they were in. He was working at a laptop he had had to bring from home. Her own desktop PC was sat nearby, idling now that Malcolm had finished setting it up for her some thirty minutes passed. He glanced up briefly, greeting her with a muffled "hullo there."

"We have bandwidth?" she asked, sitting at her new station.

"An endless supply of it," he confirmed, cheerily.

Ruth nodded, raising a pained smile. "That's good."

 _I have no idea what I'm doing,_ she silently confessed to herself. She stared at the blank screen, still in sleep mode, and jerked the mouse to wake it up again. A moment later, her dark reflection vanished and her desktop appeared, decorated with its brightly coloured icons. Double clicking the Tor browser, she accessed the deep web with a sense of growing foreboding. She could go anywhere and no one would ever know but, out of habit more than anything else, she found herself returning to the home page of the assassin. She still had his Onion address on a scrap of paper, tucked away in her shirt pocket.

These websites may be untraceable on a normal browser, but they weren't unhackable. For the moment, she clicked around the menu of his website. She always thought they were fakes. But the more she thought about it, the more she realised she was being complacent. The dealers plying their trade of meth, crack and heroine were all real enough. The paedophiles trading videos and images of child abuse as though they were nothing more than football cards were all too real. Why shouldn't the assassins plying their trade also be real?

She leaned back in her chair and thought about it all again. There was a reason why the deep was called that. It was buried by the people who wanted it to stay buried. It was a snake pit of criminality being sucked into humanity's darkest hole. Now, she was willingly venturing inside in the hope of getting a bite.

"There's a payment in here of almost $100,000 paid to an off-shore bank account on the Cayman Islands from another suspect account from a bank in Saudi Arabia." Malcolm's voice jolted Ruth out of her reverie.

"From whom to who?" she asked, leaning to the left so she could see his screen.

Malcolm's gaze was still fixed on the screen, eyes narrowed as he scanned over the text. "It doesn't say exactly. But the payment was made by Sharaf Suleiman to someone else. It's a company name."

"It's probably a shell company, too," Ruth added. "But it's still possible to find out who really owns it and what else they're using it for."

She looked at the record on the screen, then jotted down the account number. It was something she would look into later. In the meantime she wanted to focus on her new friend, the assassin. She emailed his site at the address given, an email account that was also buried on the deep web. In her email, she copied and pasted a link that was transformed into a hyperlink buried in her casual text message. Once clicked, the link would unleash her remote code execution attack – offering her a precious way in to the site.

Malcolm was watching her as she worked methodically. "Let's hope he checks his emails frequently."

"It's a bit like going fishing really, you just have to wait for the damn bite," she replied. "But, if it doesn't work, could we organise a distributed denial of service attack?"

Malcolm grimaced. "Between the two of us, not likely. The best we could do is bounce URL requests from all over the world on remote servers and hope for the best."

Ruth sighed and ran a hand through her hair. The easiest way of attacking her new friend's website all seemed barred to her, making her frustrating wait inevitable. After giving the screen one final despairing glance, she got to her feet and returned to Harry, who was waiting in the kitchen. She found him alone, composing a report bound for the Home Secretary eventually. Once they had all their evidence compiled, it would be sent. To her, it still looked depressingly slender.

"We think we might have found one of John Carlton's shell companies," she informed him, sliding into the seat opposite his. "And I'm fishing for an assassin. If I can access that website, I can access the messages and commands that were sent to him. It could contain everything we need there, in black and white stored in messages and transaction histories. We could even dig out the real person behind the site – if there is one."

Harry's brow creased as he set aside his report. "I thought you said they were all fakes? You were pretty dismissive, if I recall rightly."

"I was," she admitted. "But someone killed Sharaf Suleiman and they must have come from somewhere. We can't just ignore this lead."

Before Harry could reply, however, the sound of movement outside the kitchen backdoor caught them both off-guard. They whipped around, Harry almost reaching for his seat as he reached for his gun at the same time. Without saying a word, they met each other's gaze and silently, slowly, got out of their seats and moved towards the door. Before opening it, Harry paused and met her gaze again, pressing a finger to his lips. Ruth nodded, also listening intently to the sounds of whoever was out there.

"We've been compromised," she whispered, low enough for only him to hear.

Harry made no reply, he just rested one hand on the door handle and eased it slowly open. His gun was trained on the courtyard outside the small open porch. At first, Ruth couldn't see out and the door was blocking her view. Harry's face was lit up by the afternoon sun, his expression a mask of crippling tension and confusion. After a pause that seemed to Ruth to last an age, he stepped into the open and looked left and right. Ruth soon followed, her heart still in her throat. She could see for herself that there was nothing out there.

"I definitely heard that," he said, now several paces away from the door. "I heard it and I know you did, too."

Ruth nodded, scanning all around her. Empty fields, a few leafless trees bent by the wind. The old tractor rusting in the paddock out the back. Next to the house was the old derelict barn. "I heard it," she confirmed. "Definitely not imagining things this time."

* * *

Abandoned churches were once worth a fortune on the property market. But the one Ros woke up in had holes in the roof, falling masonry from the north transept and random busted floorboards that seemed divinely engineered for breaking ankles. Useful under a lot of circumstances, but positively hazardous for them. Clearly used to his new surroundings, Lucas slept on long past sunrise. Through the noise of the birds chirping in the dawn and the rain pattering on – and through – the roof. None of it seemed to bother him.

But, as hide outs went, theirs was close to perfect. Lucas' laptop was set up in what was once the chancel, on what was once the altar. It was keyed in to cameras that were rigged up around Lucas' father's old house. Motion sensitive, they would only come on if someone set them off and the footage saved to the hard drive ready for their inspection whenever they were able. It was Tariq they had to thank for all the technological chicanery. The techie who was, at that moment, catching some much needed shut eye before returning to London.

Just to get a feel for the software, Ros fired up the laptop and started flicking between all the different cameras. Full colour images popped up on the screen. If she pressed a certain set of keys she could split the screen between up to four different cameras. As she experimented, she found herself homing in different parts of the exterior and interior. Out the back was all fields, with nothing to see but the old pony still cropping at the grass. But on the road outside the house, she found a brand new Land Rover parked beside a high grass verge. She zoomed in on the number plate and noted it down. Using remote access to the national database, she was able to trace the vehicle back to the local farmer who owned it.

"Excellent," she said, happier now that she knew she could get results.

"You're happy with it, then?"

While she was playing with the new features, Tariq had woken up. She turned in time to see him stifle a yawn as he lurched over to her. Clearly not a morning person, he lacked his usual zing.

"Jesus, how can anyone sleep in this ruin?"

Ros tutted. "You're in the house of God, Tariq."

"Yeah, well I'm not a Christian. Jesus will just have to deal with it," he replied. "Anyway, have you found anything yet? There's cameras inside too, don't forget. Just in case anyone feels like making themselves at home in there."

"Only the local farmer illegally parking outside Lucas' dad's old house," she explained. "Other than that, it's still early days. If they follow our paper trail, the agents would only arrive here today at the earliest."

Although not holding her breath, the wait wasn't excessively long. Ros had left the church that afternoon to walk Tariq back to the train station, leaving Lucas in charge of the surveillance of his old home. By the time she got back, he was hunched over the laptop, taking screenshots and backing up filmed data.

Quickening her pace as she strode down the aisle, hurrying to his side. "Anyone we recognise?"

It was a longshot, she knew, but worth a try.

"No, I have no idea who these people are," he replied, still transfixed by the images on the screen. "I wish we'd gotten some listening devices in there now."

"Don't worry about it. Just take me through the footage, from the start, and we can get it sent down to Harry and Malcolm. They'll know what to do next."

"Yes, but then what?" he asked, turning from screen to her. "Do I have to hide up here until this mess is sorted out? I feel like I'm on the run and I don't even know what for."

"I don't see why you can't come down to Connie's old bunker with me," she assured him. "Just as long as neither of us go anywhere near Thames House."

It was hardly reassuring, but better than being left to fight it out far from the rest of the team. To take his mind off things, she diverted him back to what their cameras had picked up. Another car, a four wheel drive, had pulled up outside the house. Its number plates clearly visible. Only now, she was able to wind the footage back and get shots of the men in the vehicle. They watched in silence as they jemmied a board off one of the ground floor windows and climbed inside the house. Then they were able to cut to one of the interior cameras, where the same men could be seen searching the lounge and kitchen before vanishing upstairs.

"Tariq didn't put in any cameras upstairs, did he?" she asked.

"No, but that's enough to go on. We have solid proof that someone's been snooping around my old house."

"True enough," she concurred. "At least they know you're not there, now. It should be safe for you to go back."

"What if they come back?" he asked. "We can't rule it out."

That was also true enough, but she didn't dwell on it. Instead, she took copies of the footage and shut down the laptop. "Whatever happens, there's no point in us hanging around here a moment longer. Let's just go."

* * *

Once they had cooked up a feast of scrambled eggs on toast, they gathered in the bunker again. Harry, Malcolm and Ruth all vying for space around their limited comms equipment. All the listening devices, phone taps and bugs they could muster had been handed over to Jo Portman that afternoon. Now, she and Nathan would be starting another cleaning shift at Securitech HQ. Harry watched the clock on the wall nervously.

"What's the new boy like?" asked Malcolm, eye raking over Nathan Fraser's name on the list.

"Young, naïve and idealistic," Harry replied, starting to pace.

Ruth sighed. "What Harry means is, is that Nathan is keen to make a difference, dedicated and quickly learning the ropes."

"Oh dear," said Malcolm. "I'm sure you'll soon knock that out of him, Harry."

"I won't need to; life will find a way to do it for him," Harry retorted, forcing himself to come to a rest again.

He was always tense before an Op, but the pressure was greater now than on most occasions. After checking the clock again, he decided to relieve the tension by pacing again. He could feel Ruth's eyes tracking him as he passed to and fro, but he felt himself impervious to her silent implorations now. Now that they were finally starting to get somewhere, and a dossier of evidence was slowly being stacked up against John Carlton, he wondered how to go about presenting it to the Home Secretary.

He had given William Towers numerous opportunities to listen. The consequences of it were that he was now conducting his operation in the bunker of an old traitor, instead of on the Grid basking in the glow of full departmental support. He had half a mind to by-pass Towers altogether and leak his dossier of evidence straight to the press. Some ultra-liberal, left winger type guaranteed to have the Government pissing blood.

"The Guardian," he said, now smiling at the clock on the wall.

A warm, fuzzy satisfaction closed over him as he pictured the front page in his head.

"What?" Ruth and Malcolm chorused.

"Oh, nothing," he replied, rejoining them at the comms equipment.

But Ruth had known him at too close a quarter and for too long. "Harry, what are you up to?"

Before he could answer, the radio crackled into life. Jo's voice was distant, barely audible. But Nathan's concealed mic calibrated itself much quicker.

"Hey," he said. "It's me. Can you hear me all right?"

Malcolm winced, as though he had been slapped in the face. "Please use proper call signs in future!"

Ruth stifled a laugh, drawing a scandalised look from Malcolm. "'Hey' was never a valid call sign in my day and I doubt very much that it is now," he informed her.

Not having blocked his own mic, Nathan thought that the rebuke was aimed at him.

"Yes, okay. This is Alpha One, or something like that."

"Just get on with it," Harry called out, even though he knew he wouldn't be picked up by the mics. However, Ruth relayed the message just as Jo was able to tune into their frequency. He drew a deep breath to steady his nerves as the Op finally got under way. "Good luck," he added, before settling back down again.

* * *

Nathan made his way straight to John Carlton's floor, shrinking back against the wall as the man himself passed him in the corridor. But to Carlton, Nathan was just another cleaner. The MD's gaze passed straight through him as they levelled with one another. When they were finally walking away from each other, Nathan did not look back and quickened his pace. A move made tricky by the large yellow mop bucket he was dragging behind him. Knowing this would be his last night posing as a cleaner, he lost the equipment as soon as was convenient and went about accessing various offices and rooms. After just a cursory sweep of the external office area, he let himself into Carlton's private office with a lock pick supplied to him by Harry.

"I'm in," he murmured under his breath.

An acknowledgement came from the other end while he surveyed the office again. It wasn't especially luxurious, for a Managing Director of a large and up-coming company. Although, it did have the mandatory plastic plant in a pot shoved into the far corner, where Nathan decided a hidden camera could be concealed in the stalk.

"Tap the phone first," Malcolm advised.

Not daring to cross the affable Welshman, Nathan complied. First, he drew the blinds on the office window and locked the door from inside – ensuring no interruptions from other cleaners. Jo was on the second floor, searching for a paper trail in other departments.

"Nathan, we have records of financial transactions using a shell company. See if you can find anything to do with that," said Ruth.

He tried to keep up with the instructions sounding through his ear piece. Working rapidly but carefully and always keeping an ear out for the sound of Carlton returning. Something that played at the back of his mind as he bugged the office as much as he could. By the time he was finished, they would be hearing the lice crawling through the carpet fibres. Before leaving, he booted up the computer on the desk and by-passed the password with a hacking tool on a pen drive supplied by Malcolm.

"I'm on the PC," he informed the others listening in. "Send the email, Ruth, and I'll click on the remote code link."

It only took another minute, but once Ruth was in he shut the machine down and opened the top desk drawer. There were scores of letters, ledger books and receipt dockets in there. So many he barely knew where to begin. But he rummaged through them anyway, finding nothing.

"I have to go," he informed the others. "I've been in here too long."

Receiving confirmation from the other end, he left the office as he found it – except with an empty waste paper bin. He crossed the floor of the open plan office, heading for the double doors that led to the exit. Jo was still searching the first floor, he signalled to her that he was heading outside – a gesture met with another gesture. They didn't speak, he continued towards the exit and out into the cool night air.

By now, the car park was deserted except for the van belonging to the cleaning company. A single streetlamp lit the ramp that descended through the perimeter wall and the tarmac glittered after a recent rainfall. After a brief breather, Nathan took out his earpiece and slipped it into his back pocket. Finally alone again, he moved away from the front of the building, towards an underground area where he assumed the boiler room was stored. He hadn't gone more than a few feet when footsteps rushed up behind him.

Assuming it was Jo, he turned back, ready to get a briefing. But the approaching man cut him off. He was dressed in the cleaner's uniform and looked as if he was just going for a smoke.

"Hey," he said, by way of greeting.

Nathan raised a hand, not exactly keen to be drawn into conversation. "All right."

The man took him by the arm, leaned in close to his ear. "I know who you are. I know you're looking for information that will clear Lucas North."

Nathan's breath hitched in his throat, his attention suddenly grabbed by the newcomer. "Who are you?"

"A friend," he replied, vaguely. "Come with me. I have information that could help you."

Nathan made a note of the man's appearance. Tall, stronger than him and dark haired. That was all he could make out in the poor light; the light from the office windows that spilled into the darkness outside. Still, Nathan followed him down the small flight of concrete steps he had been heading towards anyway. It would be worth it to get even a small clue about the mess they were in.

"What do you have for us?" he asked, apprehensively facing the other man.

"Just this," replied the stranger.

He was so close Nathan could feel the man's breath on his neck. A warm tingling closely followed by the pain of a punch right in the stomach. Winded, he gasped and tried to double over – failing as the other man held him upright. Another blow came just above his groin and he could feel the blood running down the inside of his jeans. He just caught the flash of the blade as the third thrust of the knife caught him in the chest and he finally realised what was really happening. There was no pain, just shock and the heat of his blood. He was slumped in the man's arms as he was stabbed for the fourth time, helpless with his head against his killer's shoulder.

Finally, Nathan managed to say something as he met the man's gaze. "They're going to hunt you down."

The other man finally let him fall to the ground. A jolt of impact causing a great spasm of pain and blood from every injury he'd suffered. But still his consciousness wouldn't let him go. He rolled onto his back with one hand plugging the worst of the knife wounds and closed his eyes. But still he bled out. He could feel it pooling beneath him. In the end, however, it didn't take long.

* * *

 **Thanks again for reading; reviews would be lovely if you have a minute.**


	10. Chin Up

**Thank you to everyone who has reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thank you.**

* * *

 **Chapter Ten: Chin Up**

Ruth stopped nervously twisting her wedding ring round her finger only to accept a cup of tea. She called it a cup of tea in her head; but the reality was that it was a plastic beaker full of heated ditch water that had been spat out by a suspicious looking machine in the hospital waiting room. Jo tried to smile at her as she handed it over, but she still looked menacing while covered in someone else's blood. It was clear she had tried to wash it out in the ladies toilets, but only succeeded in spreading the stains around, lending it a gruesome water colour effect.

"Thanks, Jo," she said. Ruth sipped the tea, but only for show and had to suppress a grimace.

She only accepted because it gave the other woman something to do. Now Jo resumed her pacing, back and forth and wearing a hole in the already patchy lino. In between steady footfalls, she could just hear Harry's voice talking in low tones to someone outside. She looked up, towards the door, but the waiting room they were in was an ante-room away from the main bustle of the accident and emergency ward. Harry was out of sight.

While she waited for his return, she thought back over her time in service. Agents had died outright on unacknowledged battlefields the length and breadth of the country. She thought she should be used to it by now, she was almost angry with herself for still being so emotional. Ros wouldn't do this. Ros would hold it together and if she felt any grief at all she would use that to drive her on, to consolidate her own steely self-control. Harry was the same as Ros. Grief converted into an unyielding need to strike back and settle a score. She used to think it was heartlessness. Now, she saw it for what it was: an energy.

Unwittingly, she recalled her return from Cyprus. She returned to the Grid and found only three members of the team she had left behind still alive. Even now that realisation made her blood run cold. Still, she had resolved herself to facing any future deaths in the team with the same cold determination as did Harry and Ros, using it to driver her onwards. But she hadn't been prepared for an all-night wait while her colleague hovered between life and death. Uncertainty, it seemed, was so much worse than the hardness of facts.

Ruth's train of thought was derailed as Harry finally re-entered the room. His expression was grim, but firm set. Jo ceased pacing immediately, whipping round to face her boss. Meanwhile, Ruth got up, her expression expectant and braced for the worst.

"Well, Nathan's survived the emergency surgery," he said. "He's had a massive blood transfusion, he's lost a kidney and there was some other internal damage that needed patching up. But he's still in a coma and it's not looking good."

"If he survived the surgery then surely that's the worst of it?" asked Jo.

Ruth didn't know what to make of it. But she could see Harry had already imparted all the hope he could.

"We'll just have to wait and see," he replied. "Look, his partner's with him now and his family are on their way from Wales. We should go home and give them all peace. Jo, we'll drive you back, okay?"

Jo looked hesitant, chewing nervously at a dirty fingernail. Ruth could see the overwhelming urge to stick by a fallen comrade, but with next of kin and real family on the way sensitivity had to win out. Reluctantly, Jo followed them.

They passed him on the way out. He was shut up inside the intensive care unit, surrounded by machines and buried in a nest of wires. Ollie was already there at the bedside and gently holding an exposed hand, so at least Nathan wasn't alone. Too many of them died alone; the fact that they rarely saw their own death coming being the smallest of consolations.

The three of them stepped out into the early morning gloom. It had been raining and all the car windscreens glittered under the lights of the car park lamps. Their own was among them, parked close to the hospital exit and reflecting the building in its tinted windows. A black mirror reflecting them in negative light.

"Are you all right?" asked Harry, as they got in the front. He reached over and squeezed her hand, a gesture of reassurance. "Where there's life, there's hope."

It was his way of saying ' _keep your chin up_.' "Yes, I'm fine," she replied.

Jo was silent in the back seat. Exhaustion and stress had taken it out of her. But Harry took advantage of the early hour to cut some corners to get her home faster than usual. A journey conducted in near silence.

"We should go back to the house," Harry suggested, once Jo was safely home. "There's no point returning to the farm."

Ruth raised a pale smile, out of relief more than anything else. She also noted that the farm was now just 'the farm' and no longer Connie's farm. The taint of treason was slowly being erased from its very foundations.

"I won't be able to sleep at all," she pointed out. "But I don't want to go back there."

"Ros, Lucas and Tariq are there. It's not like we left Malcolm on his own." Harry sounded as if he were justifying himself. He kept his eye on the road as they made the final leg of the journey. "Besides, I think it's high time I spoke to the Home Secretary again."

Although she opted against pushing the issue, Ruth inwardly agreed with him. But she couldn't help but wonder what effect it would have. Were they backing each other into ever tightening corners? Or would the reward for Nathan's blood be a truce with the Home Office? Either way, she caught the look of calm passivity in Harry's eyes. That same glacial look that masked his hardening heart. He shut off the engine abruptly, making the ensuing silence almost heavy.

"Do you think Towers will listen now?" she asked, reaching for the door handle but then pausing. She wanted to hear his opinion before getting out.

"I'll make him listen," he answered, bluntly. "Come inside, it's late."

It was actually early. Almost six in the morning and they only had a couple of hours to get some sleep. She did as he bid, stepping against the damp concrete and listening to her heels ringing against the pavement as she joined him again. When she went to reach for his hand, he pulled his own away and placed his arm protectively around her shoulder.

"Was that Oliver you were talking to?" she asked. "Back at the hospital, I mean."

"Yes. He'd become deeply distressed after the nurses flat out refused to let him donate blood despite the desperation of Nathan's situation."

Ruth extricated herself from his semi-embrace as she unlocked the front door, a frown picking at her brow. "Surely they would set that rule aside if a man's life was in grave danger?"

"Apparently not. The poor sod even offered to undergo an HIV test there and then to prove he was free of infection. Even so, they still can't use his blood."

"But did they get the blood they needed? That's all that matters, in the end."

"Sure," replied Harry. "But it was a delay that cost them time. Now it's just that waiting game again."

Resisting the urge to open a bottle of wine, Ruth steered Harry straight up the stairs. Now that she was home, the weight of exhaustion was finally weighing her down. Her limbs felt as if they were made of lead and her mind couldn't process any more. She yawned expansively as she fell backwards onto their bed and finally closing her eyes.

* * *

While Ros and Tariq were busy, Lucas let himself into the bathroom of the farm. In a scene so reminiscent of childhood winters, there was no hot water and the cold had to be endured. But it was worth it for a shave and a proper wash, at long last. Ros did offer to boil a kettle, but the prospect of first degree burns didn't appeal much, either. There was no middle ground in old houses: the water was either lethal or freezing, no matter what you did to it.

By the time he had returned to Ros, the news of Nathan's near fatal stabbing had come through. She was on the phone, talking to the young cleaner who had found him and pretending to be a policewoman. Harry and Ruth had already set off back to London; Tariq was down in the bunker working with Malcolm. He sat on the arm of a chair, watching as Ros concluded her discussion with the cleaning girl.

"Anything?" he asked, as she hung up.

She was sat at the dining table, running a hand through her hair and looking exhausted. "Nothing. No description; nothing suspicious. We have no idea who actually did it."

"Whoever did it will probably have nothing to do with the actual Op, though," he pointed out. "What I mean is, whoever it was won't lead us directly to the heart of what's going on. He was just some cat's paw."

"Yeah, but he could still tell us who hired him," she replied. "Now he's just melted into the night and probably out of the country. Tariq's scrolling through CCTV footage but, unsurprisingly, Carlton probably knocked out the cameras in that area before he left the building."

Lucas sighed deeply. "Well then, we'll just have to find another way. We still have the images we took from dad's old house. Those people are bound to lead us somewhere."

"And we need access to facial recognition software before we can get positive identifications on them," she pointed out. "It comes to something if we have to hack into our own stations to do our jobs properly."

With that, she got up wearily and stretched out. It was some effort to wake herself up again, following their long and cramped journey south from Cumbria. Now it time was crawling into the early hours of the morning and there was no end in sight for them. She looked around the room, as though she had lost something. But all Lucas could see was old newspapers and fake photographs of a woman who turned out to also be largely fabricated.

"We should go down stairs," she suggested. "Come on. I'm sure Malcolm's forgiven you for forcing him and his mother out of their home, a few years ago."

Sometime during the intervening years he had almost forgotten that small detail. The Albany File and the ensuing chaos that had, once again, reared its head. He suppressed a groan and followed Ros as she led the way into what looked like an ordinary basement cellar. The bunker itself was in semi-darkness, forcing him to make his way along the narrow corridor by touch. But once in the right place, they found Malcolm listening intently to something they could not hear, while Tariq was glaring at the monitor of a PC. For a long time, both he and Ros went unnoticed as the other two were lost in their work. Or, Malcolm was just pretending he was not there.

"Okay," Ros broke the silence, pulling up a chair for herself. "What's been happening? Tariq, can you give me a quick briefing?"

After the darkness outside, the bright lights inside were making Lucas narrow his eyes menacingly. But he managed to follow suit, directing that same glare towards Tariq. The younger of the techies was at least looking vaguely optimistic.

"You know, before she left, Ruth had sent an email containing a virus to someone advertising themselves as an assassin on the deep web?" he recounted. Ros nodded, so he continued. "Well, whoever is behind that profile has already clicked on the email, thinking it was an offer of business."

Lucas felt his own hopes lifting. "So, you're able to gain access to the site?"

Tariq nodded, barely suppressing a grin. "We have unfettered access to his messaging system. Check this out."

Gripping the monitor from both sides and pulling it towards himself, Lucas thought he was about to kiss it. Instead, he twisted it so he and Ros could see what he was talking about. Tariq was smiling so broadly his dark eyes glittered in the neon strip lights overhead.

"This," he said, "is the fabricated chat log that was found in Lucas' file, only the names have been photoshopped out and replaced. The time stamps are the same, the dates and everything. Even the Onion URL is still the same."

Ros had the original, folded neatly in her back pocket, after Ruth had given it to her before leaving for London. But now she pulled it out so fast she almost tore it. She then held it up to the screen, beside the original so they could all compare them.

"The bastards!" she exclaimed in a rare show of emotion. "I don't know if I should even be bloody offended that they've done such a rush job of it."

"I really don't care," Lucas cut in, leaning over them all to take a screenshot of the original – undoctored – chat log. "Get this to Harry immediately, before he meets with the Home Sec tomorrow."

He had become all fingers and thumbs in his haste to get the evidence compiled, so Tariq took over. It seemed he did everything with just a few swift clicks of a mouse, and suddenly it was all being emailed to Harry. Once that was concluded, Lucas was able to get an unimpeded look at the "assassin's" website. There were other messages in there, concealed in the direct message folder that only a site administrator had access to. He pointed to them on the screen. "Make sure you get copies of all of these before you sign out. God knows what's in there and it could lead us to whoever killed Sharaf Suleiman and who attempted to kill our Nathan. I mean, it can't be a coincidence that Nathan was with Suleiman at the time of his death. I think the killer recognised him. Ros, what do you think?"

He turned to look at her, gaging her reaction. "It's entirely possible. Plausible, even. If Nathan pulls through, we'll need to get a positive identification from him. It could even be that Nathan saw him by the canal that morning but didn't register with him as suspicious at the time. But that really is _if_ he pulls through."

But given the size of that 'if', they had to rely on other means to snare their key players. Malcolm was still listening in, but removed his headphones once Tariq got down to taking copies of their assassin's website messages.

"For my part," he began. "I've been following the trail of some large sums of money. Money paid through a shell company belonging to one John Carlton, but I haven't yet been able to find out where that money originated from or what it was for."

"And that shell company has no assets at all? It's literally just a name," asked Ros, fixing Malcolm with a beady-eyed glare. She was like a blood hound picking up the scent.

"Just a name, used purely to move one especially large sum of money," he answered.

It was a common enough tactic. But the money could just as easily be Securitech money ready for laundering as it could be for a dirty bomb produced by the same corporation. Until they traced its origins, they had no concrete evidence. Although he would have liked to have seen John Carlton and Securitech hung out to dry before morning, Lucas was still satisfied.

"That's not all," said Malcolm, jolting Lucas out of his reverie. "Nathan did manage to bug Carlton's office and those bugs are still in place now. I daresay – given that they clearly know who Nathan is and what he was doing there – the obvious bugs will be gone before the morning tea break. However, there are others in less than obvious places. Hopefully, some will survive and we'll still be able to listen in on what's going on in that office."

"But the phone tap will be gone," said Ros, her earlier eagerness now tempered. "We'll only ever get one half of the conversation."

"Unless we tap remotely," Tariq chipped in again. He half turned from his computer terminal. "We can calibrate the existing tap and back it up remotely."

Malcolm gestured towards him, smiling approvingly. "Don't despair. There's always a backup plan."

By the time they left the bunker, it was nearing seven in the morning. The early rays of dawn were just making their presence felt outside the kitchen window. Before getting some sleep, he felt they both deserved at least a strong cup of tea. While waiting for the kettle to boil, however, Lucas found himself staring out of that same window. He found the farm to be much like his childhood home, except there were no secret chemical warfare bunkers underground, to the best of his knowledge.

The steam billowed from the kettle while he was still staring into the middle distance, obscuring his view in an opalescent haze. But even though lost in his thoughts and half blinded by the steam, he still saw someone moving in the distance. Frowning, he quickly called out to Ros.

"There's someone out there," he called, firmly. "Quick, come and look. In the distance, at the far end of the paddock, where that tractor is. I definitely saw someone. Or something. The overgrowth moved as they ducked out of sight."

Ros was swiftly at his shoulder, also staring hard into the distance. But clearly she registered nothing. "I can't see anything. Are you sure you didn't imagine it? It's been a long few days and we're all exhausted."

He still felt deeply uneasy, but returned to making the tea anyway. Every ten seconds, however, he found himself checking what was going on out there. But now he saw nothing besides the bland countryside.

* * *

On the back of very little sleep, constant worry over the fate of his agent and a raging bad mood, Harry began his meeting with the Home Secretary in earnest. Under normal circumstances, he would have been cautious: gaging the man's mood first, treading carefully and acting almost like a diplomat. But, today, any effort at courtesy was more effort than it was worth.

"Home Secretary, when this Op first began with two British subjects travelling to Iraq to join ISIS, you asked me why this keeps happening," he began, meeting Tower's gaze. "I can tell you. It happens mostly because the agency is working off imperfect evidence which is exacerbated by the fact that we only have the full backing of the Home Office as and when it suits you. Anything you find inconveniently distasteful, you disregard and side line your own intelligence operatives to the mortal detriment of the vital work we do. I hope now that this answers the question for you."

Towers looked as if he'd been struck around the head. "Now, Harry, I don't think there's any need for this-"

"Oh, there's every need Home Secretary," he cut in again, opening a file on his lap. He paused for breath and to give himself time to select some of the evidence gathered by Ros and Lucas. "The need grows all the greater when one of my promising young agents is laid out and dying in a hospital intensive care unit all because you would not listen. Well, you wouldn't listen then so I'm making you see for yourself, now, what is going on right under your nose."

Giving up on selecting only the highlights, Harry pushed the whole file across the desk. All they had so far was in there: from financial transactions, to chat logs unedited and photos of people sneaking around private homes. William Towers reached for it as though it may have been booby trapped, gingerly between thumb and forefinger. While he read through it, Harry watched and tapped his foot against the carpet. He wanted out of there as quickly as possible. But while he read, Towers remained ominously silent. An act that raised Harry's hackles even further.

"That chat log you used to so casually dismiss one of my most able Senior Case Officers is in there in its unedited form," he pointed out, waspishly. "Do take a long, hard look at it while you're there."

Towers still did not look up at him, remaining buried in the file instead. But the colour was rising in his face. Whether through shame or fury Harry could not tell, nor did he much care anymore. He had been more than patient with Towers, in light of past good relations. But his good will was spent, a growing deficit in fact. He heard Towers draw a deep, shuddering breath as he tried to make head and tail of what he was looking at.

"A-and what exactly…" Towers began, then trailed off. "Jesus, Harry!"

Harry sighed impatiently. "That's one name you definitely won't find in that file, Home Secretary."

Almost as if he had not spoken at all, Towers flipped the file shut as though it offended him personally. "But why? For god's sake, Harry, why would Carlton do this? He tried to kill an MI5 operative on his own doorstep. Why?"

"I'd be able to answer that question for you, if you hadn't had myself and my entire team suspended," he snapped back. "It might not have happened at all, if we had had our full back up team."

Towers coloured again, no longer meeting Harry's gaze. However he was still prevaricating; still looking for some way to save face. But for every minute longer that he denied what was going on, Towers was only digging himself deeper into his own mess. Harry had all the time in the world to watch him doing that.

"Point taken," Towers replied, flatly. "Fine. I admit it. You were right and I was wrong."

"Given all that's happened, don't think for one moment that I glean so much as one iota of satisfaction from hearing you say that. Wake up, Towers. The time has come for damage limitation. Reinstate my team, put the brakes on this deal you're doing with Securitech and John Carlton and let us do our job."

Towers removed his glasses and buried his face in his hands, kneading wearily at his eyes. He looked like a man beaten into submission.

"Of course, I'll reinstate Section D immediately," he said, finally. "And Harry, I realise I'm not exactly your favourite person at the minute, but I do deeply regret what happened to your agent. There must be something I can do?"

There was a moment of silence during which Harry fixed Towers with his best look of withering contempt.

"He's too comatose to appreciate flowers and chocolates, Home Secretary. But if he ever regains consciousness, I'll be sure to pass him your regards. Oh, and for your sake, I really do hope he does make a full recovery."

Another moment of silence followed. This time tense as the gaze of the two men locked into each other. Expressions, impossible to read anyway, hardened before Towers remembered that Heads of Counter Terrorism never made threats. Not for one moment did Harry allow his own stance to waver.

Towers cleared his throat. "I'll see to it that he gets the best possible medical care, Harry. At the best hospital. Don't worry about that."

Not even in this mood would Harry look a gift horse in the mouth. He smiled, almost beatifically. "I'm sure his family would appreciate that very much, Home Secretary. They're travelling all the way from Wales to be by his side, in what may very well be his final days."

A flicker of dim irritation passed Tower's face. "And I'll see to it they're lodged very comfortably throughout their stay, Harry. Tell them they have nothing to worry about."

"That's very generous of you, Home Secretary," Harry replied. "Now, I must get back to work. I'm sure you understand."

They both rose stiffly to their feet, grasping hands across the polished oak table. "Oh, I understand perfectly, Harry."

"That makes a nice change, Home Secretary." Satisfied that he had had the last word, Harry turned on his heel and walked away before Towers could get another word in. The first results were in and he finally felt like he was inching ahead again.

* * *

 **Thanks again for reading, reviews would be lovely if you have a moment.**

 **Incidentally, just in case anyone noticed this story vanishing for a few days: my account got hacked and a whole bunch of stories were deleted. They all had to be recovered once my security settings were refreshed. There was no major problem and things will carry on as normal. Thanks again!**


	11. Chapter 11

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story. Thanks also to the anonymous reviewers who I cannot thank in person – thank you!**

 **Apologies for the long delay in getting this updated, but the most heinous writer's block descended after the last chapter. The block is still there, but I'm ploughing through this chapter anyway (instead of spending more hours staring at a blank word document).**

* * *

 **Chapter Eleven: The Grid Again. **

One by one, they all drifted away from the bedside. Ollie went first, a tactical retreat as though he'd been flushed out by the arrival of so many of the Fraser clan. His continued presence there became an intrusion, a cuckoo in the family nest, and he slowly inched away until he was out of the door. Then there were four. The youngest sibling, a man-boy of nineteen, making ill-timed jests in a desperate effort to lift the tension. The other three had grown so adept at blocking him out they didn't even notice when he vanished altogether. The middle sibling, a woman in her twenties, silent and stunned with grief, discreetly faded into the hospital background. Only the parents remained, sticking it out to the bitter end. It was like the building of their family in reverse – with children departing in the opposite order of their arrival, leaving only Mum and Dad alone with their eldest stuck in some comatose hinterland.

The middle aged man lifted his gaze, to the spots once occupied by his younger children as thought noticing their sudden absence for the first time. On the opposite side of the bed, his wife still had her coat on but they had been there for over twelve hours now. Her face was slack with incomprehension as she watched her son's chest rise and fall. Sometimes slow, sometimes quickening, the heart monitor bleeped Nathan's continued existence, a heart rate registered in fluctuating lines on a nearby monitor.

"You should get some sleep," he said. "I'll call if anything happens."

It was nearing three in the morning and she showed no sign of having heard him. But, after a long delay spent watching their comatose child, she rose to her feet. She had her handbag clutched to her stomach; as though she expected him to die as soon as she looked away, she kept her gaze on Nathan. Even as she backed out of the door, she studied him one more time. Then, as with the others, she was gone. Not even the sound of her footsteps could be heard as she made her exit.

Now there was one. James Fraser reached for the clear plastic bag that contained his son's personal items, it was sat on the bedside table. Inside was an identity card for one Nigel Fitzgerald alongside Nathan's picture. He glared out of the mug shot as though he'd been challenging the photographer to a fight. A false name, a false date of birth and a false address. Nigel Fitzgerald was not his son, even if he had his son's features. He dropped the card back into the bag and replaced it on the table.

"It's just you and me, then," he said, speaking softly. A strange thing happened, not so long ago, they were just told their son was being transferred to a private room. But still, he kept his voice down as he spoke and reached out one hand, resting it on his son's forearm. He drew a deep breath before resuming his one sided conversation. "Ask them to consult me, next time they make you a legend. You don't even look like a Nigel."

Linda wanted to name him James. That egotistical self-indulgence of fathers giving their first born sons their own name. At least, that was what it felt like to him and he refused to allow it. The knowledge that his son worked for MI5 came on a wave of vindication over that last minute name change. Knowing he had unwittingly saved his boy from a raft of unfunny James Bond jokes brought some pale satisfaction. Whatever else he had gotten wrong in the boy's life, he got that right.

"You didn't expect it to be me here now, did you?" he continued. "You thought I'd be sick of watching you die, but at least you're not doing it to yourself this time."

There was a seven year stretch throughout which father and son exchanged not so much as a word. Neither verbal nor electronic. But it wasn't always like that. They were joined at the hip for the first decade of their coexistence. Then life happened and paths diverted. Teenage angst clashed with a tortuous self-hatred, succumbing to the temptations of heroin and crack cocaine. There was nothing more unbearable than watching your own child die a slow death, day after day. So, he turned his back and closed his eyes. He didn't open them again until he learned Nathan had joined MI5 – a rather unexpected turn of events given the not so distant past. He only found that out because the boy had almost got himself shot and killed in Northern Ireland. The same place where he literally was shot and nearly killed, some thirty years before. Such is life.

His thoughts were cut off as a nurse opened the door and peered in quietly. He responded by pushing back his chair, making room for her to carry out whatever checks she needed to make.

"Excuse me," she said, apologetically.

He stood up, allowing her easier access to Nathan's equipment. She went through the charts methodically, mostly in silence until she started to check things over.

"They say he's a spy."

"He's my child," he replied, vaguely. He was ex-military and not about to divulge information on other members of the security forces. But, to take the bite out of his dodging the question, he raised a pained smile and added: "That must sound so ridiculous. He's nearly thirty."

"Of course not; he'll always be your child," replied the nurse, glancing over her shoulder. "It's just that there was someone else trying to get access to him. Someone outside your family."

She returned to her checks, taking Nathan's temperature and adjusting various knobs and dials he could not put a name to. Meanwhile, he thought on what she said. There was more to his son's stabbing than anyone was telling them. He dared think to himself that the one who really knew the full story was the same one buried under all those tubes and wires, unconscious in a Hospital bed.

"Unless it's his partner, Oliver Jones, then no one outside our immediate family is permitted to see him," he informed her. "It'll be on CCTV, won't it?"

The nurse frowned. "I think so."

"Could you have your security men go through the footage and identify him? It could be significant."

Nathan wasn't stabbed as a warning. He was stabbed so that he would die. Something he'd failed to do and lying there he was vulnerable. All they had to do was flick a switch and wait.

The nurse nodded. "Of course. We'll do what we can."

He nodded his thanks as she turned to conclude her checks. "He's doing well," she assured him as she readied herself to leave. "He's over the worst of it."

Only Nathan's regaining his consciousness and wits would satisfy him on that score. Nevertheless, he raised a smile as she left. "Thank you," he said.

* * *

They may have had the Grid back, but Harry still woke up on the sofa of the old farmhouse. Greeting the new day with a resounding sneeze brought on by a night's worth of inhaled upholstery dust, he rolled over stiffly and found his feet. Still mostly dressed from the day before, he opened the curtains onto a bitter and frosty morning. It should have been beautiful, but on a farm it made the land look barren and harsh; the gnarled bare trees looked black and rotten, almost threatening as they leaned over the boundary wall. He grimaced at the sight before bracing himself for a wash and shave in cold water.

To help distract him from the temperature, he switched on an old transistor radio and listened fixedly to the news broadcast. The big stories came first: dodgy dealings in Whitehall, minor sexual scandals and a little low level corruption here and there. Poor Nathan had slipped down the schedule to just a footnote in a bulletin that centred on John Carlton.

"The managing director of a security and munitions company, John Carlton, last night refused to comment on the circumstances surrounding a twenty-nine year old man found with multiple stab wounds on his business premises…" the newsreader stated. Still, at least she was mentioning Carlton in connection with the incident – mud, after all, has a habit of sticking. "Reports state that the unnamed victim remains in a stable – but serious – condition. Also, no further details of what happened have so far come to light."

And nor would they, unless the Home Secretary stopped playing ball again. Then it would be Towers' name being dragged through the same mud as Carlton's.

As soon as he was vaguely presentable, he returned to the bunker in the basement where Malcolm and Tariq continued to monitor phone calls to and from Securitech. Each was taking it in turns to listen in shifts. Malcolm over night; Tariq during the day. Before he was stabbed, Nathan had managed to rig Carlton's office and they had a day's worth of material to catch up on before deciding whether it was worth the effort to move all their equipment back to the Grid. But, in the early stages just as they were starting to get somewhere, it was decided to remain there and keep disruption to a minimum.

He thought he should be used to these places, as he descended the steps half in a darkness. But emerging in the engine room still felt stepping into an insect tank. Its fluorescent strip lights and blank glass windows gave it the feel of one. Although infinitely warmer than up above, the feel of the place still made him shiver. Inside, Malcolm had his back to the door and a large headset clamped over his ears. Only belatedly did he realise Harry was there.

"You look done in, Malcolm," he greeted his old friend. "Has it been worthwhile?"

Malcolm lowered the headset so that it was hanging round his neck like a poor man's welcoming garland. "Nothing to get too excited about. Carlton's been discussing the Nathan situation, but refusing to be drawn on the reasoning behind it. But, I still think it's worth you having a second listen."

It would be too much to hope for that Carlton would simply come out and say: 'we had the man stabbed because he was about to expose our selling bombs to ISIS'. But stupider things had happened before, and Harry couldn't help but feel the sinking feeling of utter deflation.

"Well, store them all as sound files and copy them to a pen drive. I'll have them analysed properly back at the Grid," he said. "You should call it a night. Where's Tariq?"

The answer was questioned as the man himself finally surfaced. He'd taken up residence in one of the back rooms, close to a boiler for a trace of warmth. Still half drugged with sleep, he greeted Harry and Malcolm with a silent, stiff wave. Meanwhile, Malcolm collected his things and they departed together.

Back in the main farmhouse, they headed out of the back door to let themselves into the open fields. A mutual understanding that, having spent the last forty eight hours underground, they both needed to see actual daylight again. Leaving it any longer would render them both transparent and blind, or something like that. Casually, they strolled around a beaten track that lined a large paddock, momentarily lost in their own thoughts.

"We're still not getting the evidence we need," said Harry, pulling his jacket closed. The cold air made his lungs burn. "Ruth's gone back to Thames House to start running suspects through facial recognition. Even then, I doubt it will be straight forward."

"When is it ever straightforward?" Malcolm retorted, straightening a flat cap on his head. "Even if it was, you'd be bored."

Harry sighed heavily. "I suppose you're right. But I still want this concluded. There may not be an immediate risk to life, but it's still a deeply unpleasant business. While this drags on and takes up our time, real plots could be in the making and we're bloody missing it all."

It always happened when politics intruded upon their workings. It was a major component to his loathing of the breed. Tiresome and pig-headed, he'd yet to meet a politician un-afflicted with the traits. Still, he savoured the brief interlude as he and Malcolm continued their short walk across the farmland. It had been so cold overnight that the normally soft ground crunched beneath their feet. All the while, he looked out for signs of interference. Neither Malcolm nor Tariq would have heard anything, down in that bunker. But he had heard the noises again during the night.

* * *

It felt like a homecoming, of sorts. Having been gone from the Grid for only a week, Ruth hadn't had time to notice how much she missed the place. Or rather, missed the easy access to the resources it offered. Never more so when the facial recognition search turned up a match. She had the images Ros and Lucas provided lined up on her desk for easy reference. But before she could verify, Ros herself was at her side bearing a pen drive.

"There's been another development," she said, pulling up a spare chair. "An uninvited guest has been turning up at Nathan's hospital room."

Ruth picked up the pen drive from where Ros had placed it beside the photographs. "CCTV footage?"

Ros nodded. "I've already seen it. He looks familiar."

With no further questioning, Ruth connected the device to her computer and waited for it to load. There was no film footage on there, just grainy images in the form of stills. There was one close match, but she wanted the pictures cleaned up first.

"I want them enhanced," she said, eyes still fixed on the PC screen. "It shouldn't take long. But he looks remarkably similar to one of Lucas' tails."

"Exactly what I thought, too," replied Ros. "Now, what about the payments made to that offshore shell company? Have you been able to trace it back to Carlton yet?"

"I've been able to go through the accounts, thanks to one of the malwares we implanted on Carlton's personal computer. There was a sum transferred from Securitech to that off-shore account connected to the same shell. There's been a number of payments, in fact. Money flowing both ways."

"So it's just a matter of matching up the date and the sum?" Ros asked, looking hopeful.

"Basically, yes."

"Thanks, Ruth. Good luck with it."

With that, Ros returned to Lucas. The pair of them sat round the same computer on the opposite side of the Grid. Meanwhile, Harry's office stood dark and locked in front of her. Inwardly, she willed him to return as soon as possible.

* * *

 **Thanks again for reading and sorry again for it being a short (and overdue) update. It's been a horror to write. Thanks again!**


	12. All or Nothing

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thank you.**

* * *

 **Chapter Twelve: All or Nothing  
**

It was dark. Too dark to see. All Nathan could feel was the cold and the damp gravel ground beneath his feet. Even the other man's breath was cold against the back of his neck, making the small hairs prickle in sick anticipation. He couldn't see him, only sense his physicality nearby and drawing closer. Skin brushing against skin as they moved through the indeterminate darkness. Small sounds reverberated off concrete walls, their feet shuffling and trying to step around each other. A mistimed two step dance that had them bumping into each other every way they turned, descending into a fearful confusion.

"Who are you?" Nathan tried to ask.

But the darkness was so thick it smothered even the sound of his voice. How was that even possible? His curiosity was not enough to fend off his growing anxiety. An anxiety that spread in the void left by information. He thought he could hear the crackle of a radio losing frequency, somewhere in the far distance. Then the moment played again. A bunched fist to his gut, the invisible blade sinking into the soft tissue of his belly. As he doubled over in pain and closed his eyes, he remembered a man he used to know. An old boyfriend from his druggy days who was nifty with his fists. He could feel those fists again, the backhander to the side of his face and the force slamming his head against the back wall. Blood from his mouth dribbling down the yellowing wallpaper as he curled up in the corner.

Images and memories faded as he opened his eyes again. A gentle coming round, slowly nudging him over to the right side of consciousness. The old boyfriend faded into light. A morning sunshine giving chase to the darkness. The cold warmed, the hard gravel softening to crisp linen sheets. He blinked rapidly, eyelashes fluttering darkly against his pale cheek. Eskimo kisses, his mother used to call them. He pushed the limits of his consciousness by clenching one fist, an act ghosting the residual phantoms of his coma.

 _You're alive then_ , a small voice at the back of his mind spoke. There was no rush of near-death euphoria, just a slow coming too. A dawning realisation of his extended existence.

"Child."

His response to the familiar voice was slow. As though the outside stimulus had long been disconnected to any learned response in him. Slowly, he turned his head on the pillow and only distantly registered a reaction to the machines all around him. They weren't just there. They were part of him, connected through tubes and wires. His chest was bared, pads stuck over his heart and the places the knife cut him. A fact his sluggish brain easily glossed over.

"Dad?" it sounded like a question.

His father smiled and brought a hand to the side of his face, cupping his cheek as he leaned down and kissed his forehead. A whiskery kiss that lingered, dampened by a falling teardrop.

"Are you crying?" that really was a question, his tone almost incredulous.

Laughter. Brief and muffled, but it was still a laugh. When his father sat back down again, Nathan was able to look at him. Tired and careworn, he looked older than his sixty years. The single tear dried on his cheek, leaving a faint track down into the moustache. Although grey now, the father once shared his son's unruly auburn curls.

Although he remembered, in acute detail, what had happened to him, Nathan did not wish to think about it now. He met his father's gaze, a blue on blue sapphire clash. "Where's Mum?" he asked, aching to see her again. "Is she here?"

Something in his father's face changed. An almost imperceptible fall in the brow, a rejected dog being kicked out into the rain. As though the asking for one parent was a rejection of the other. Had his father expected it and hoped for the opposite anyway? A twinge of guilt permeated his aching wounds.

"I'll go and call-"

"No," Nathan cut him off. "I'm sure she'll be along soon. Stay with me, please?"

It was more than a gesture of appeasement. He tried to lift his hand, but found it leaden and heavy. Nevertheless, his father met him half way. It was the first time they had made bodily contact in the best part of a decade.

"I'm not going anywhere," his father assured him, a faint smile twitching at his lips. "Do you remember what happened? Do you know where you are?"

Nathan swallowed, finding his mouth and throat dry. The former tasting like a small furry animal had curled up and died in it.

"I remember what happened well enough."

"Do you remember who did it? Would you recognise them again?"

Nathan turned away, finding himself staring at a heart monitor and a saline drip. He would have sighed had it not hurt so much. But he was spared the need to answer as a nurse arrived on the scene, clipboard in hand and admonishing his father pointedly for not ringing the buzzer as soon as he woke up. He allowed himself a small smile as he turned to the new arrival, submitting to her checks without protest.

* * *

Lucas pushed his way through the swing doors of the cafeteria, finding it almost empty but for the servers. Decidedly not hungry, he bypassed the dry pastries and croissants left over from the breakfast rush and ordered only a pot of tea. It was a small, intimate sort of a place, situated on the ground floor of Thames House well away from all the state secrets upstairs. A small island in the central hub of espionage where the agents could breathe freely and get their wits together out from under the ever watching eye of surveillance.

His tea paid for, he paused by the cash till and looked out over all the empty tables and chairs as if at a loss as to where to sit. Faced with the overwhelming choice of 'anywhere', he followed his gut instinct and headed toward to the far left corner near a fire escape. Anyone coming through the main door wouldn't see him unless they looked all around and it offered him a relatively safe sanctuary before being thrown back in the deep end of the case they were working on.

Once settled, right next to the wall, he stirred his tea thoughtfully. Although they were getting somewhere, and they had names and faces, their victory felt hollow this time. It had come at the cost of his own integrity. It had chipped away another fundamental part of the Lucas North legend. And a legend was all it was. He could have all the paper work in the world, all the documents and proof to show he was this man working for MI5 – it didn't change the fact of who he really was. John Bateman. A clueless, drifting waster stumbling from one catastrophe to the next. It had been used against him once and it could be done so again. Then, once again, he would be reliant on the good will of Harry Pearce to dig him out of the shit and defend his good name. Without that, that one small veneer of protection, he would be naked to the machinations of whatever self-serving individual came along next. There would forever be someone else pulling his strings.

He didn't realise he was still stirring the pot. Mechanically, unthinkingly, going round and round unmindful of the swirl of hot liquid threatening to spill down the sides. Stopping what he was doing, he lifted his chin out of his free hand and glanced once more round the room. Alone again, the server had disappeared into the kitchen and he could hear the sounds of metal pots and pans being stacked and water running from gushing faucets. Out of nowhere, he began to feel like he needed company. An alien feeling, after so many years of coping perfectly well on his own. But an undeniable one, too.

It was nearing nine am, but Harry was still at Connie's and Ros was out meeting an asset. Ruth was upstairs, so he dialled her number and had a brief conversation to invite her downstairs. Besides, she informed him, she had something she needed him to see. Lucky him. Barely a minute after the call ended, he heard the double doors open and rush shut again. His table being as discreet as he had guessed, she stood there glancing round for a second or two before he waved her over.

Ruth smiled as their gaze met across the room and she augmented the gesture by lifting a beige file to shoulder height. This was what she wanted him to see.

"Can I get you some tea?" he asked, already reaching for his wallet. "My treat."

She shook her head. "Thank you all the same, but I literally just finished a cup. Why are you hiding away down here?"

Her tone was light, making sure he could tell she wasn't chastising him. All the same, he apologised before explaining his peculiar mood.

"This is always going to keep on coming back, isn't it?" he said. "There's going to come a point where I can't carry on relying on Harry's protection. The only way I can wrest back control of my own career is by stepping down."

"Resigning from the service?" she replied, quickly. The question was rhetorical. "Lucas, if you were to resign from the service now, you'd be letting William Towers push you out. That's not what I would call taking back control. Actually, for you, that's rather defeatist."

He could feel his heart drop at the intonation of self-indulgence. "I don't mean right now. Maybe once the case is finished and the files closed. Once this is over, I could start again someplace else?"

Somewhere he could start from scratch and prove himself on his own terms. Somewhere where the shade of green on the grass was just that little bit deeper. As soon as he finished the sentence, he realised the folly of his own words.

"I hate to sound harsh, but you can never start from scratch, Lucas. You'll just be in a position where you have to explain all that stuff all over again," she answered, smoothing over the file. "Or, you could leave it out and find yourself living a lie again. In which case, you're just repeating mistakes you've already made. Once is forgiveable, but twice…"

Ruth let the rest of the sentence trail. She must have read the expression on his face, because the look on hers softened at the sight of it.

"Stay with us, Lucas," she said. "You've more than proved yourself and there's nothing you can do about rank opportunists except take pleasure in exposing to the world what they are." Ruth paused, looking down at her exposed forearm and giving it an idle scratch. "The best thing about that is, with MI5, you can expose them from the safety of the shadows."

Lucas smiled. "I sometimes think we underestimate your dark side, Ruth."

"Oh, it gets darker, take a look at this," she replied, opening the file.

She revealed three photographs, all paper clipped in a neat line at the top of an A4 sheet of printed paper. One of them looked familiar to him. The one in the middle, which he indicated with his index finger.

"This one," he said. "He was outside the house in Cumbria."

Ruth's eyes widened, the startling blue of her irises glittering in the overhead strip lights.

"Joseph Weston," she said. "We have photographs of him hanging around Securitech's grounds and meeting with John Carlton. He was also the same man sent to Nathan's hospital room, we think to discreetly flick the switch on his machinery and finish him off. We also have that backed up with the surveillance footage from when he was hanging around your Dad's house. Now, what would Carlton's associates be doing loitering around two people he wanted finished off?"

Again, Lucas knew he wasn't expected to answer that question. He indulged himself with a satisfied, lopsided smirk as his gaze raked over the other two.

"And what about these two clowns? Whose circus have they been trampling over?"

Her eyes glittered anew, like a cat that finally got the cream. "Throughout all of this, because of everything that happened, we as good as forgot about the two suicide bombers. You remember, the ones you were tailing in Iraq? Well, I hacked a website I found on the deep web – one that supposedly belonged to an assassin for hire. Turns out this gentleman here-" she paused to indicate the man on the left –"is him. He was acting as some sort of go between for Carlton, the bombers and Sharaf Suleiman. He was tailing Suleiman on the sly, but of course, we have no proof that he was the one who killed him."

Only Nathan had been there at the time, Suleiman's severed head left on the roof of their agent's car. There were no CCTV cameras in the area and Nathan was currently indisposed. Besides, they already had his word that he saw and heard nothing prior to the murder.

"So, is it as we suspected and this man also acting as the go between when it came to money?" asked Lucas. "Or is that the man on the left?"

"Not quite. The man on the left is a Saudi oil tycoon named Fasil Ahmed. He set up the shell company with John Carlton, who also has shares in Ahmed's oil company by the way, and used it to transfer the money for the bomb that they tried to frame you for."

While she spoke, Lucas was rubbing at his chin with a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. A sense of grim satisfaction now swelling in his belly. It was always the paper trail that caught them out in the end. No matter how they buried it; no matter how many shells and facades and laundrettes that money passed through. Removing his hand from his chin, he jabbed an accusatory finger back at Ahmed.

"Ahmed, then, is a Saudi based ISIS sympathiser who donated the money to them to buy the bomb and convinced Carlton to sell it?" he speculated.

Ruth smiled. "Precisely. But, our government is allied to Saudi Arabia, so what will actually happen to him is anyone's guess."

The smile died on Lucas' face. Never mind the public floggings, the beheadings and the utter subjugation of women. Britain needs oil and Saudi can be forgiven for everything. Especially their oily tycoons. Still, at least they had the truth even if no one else ever would.

"It makes me want to vomit whenever I think of us kow-towing to these people," he said, sourly. "The Wahhabi's are funding the very people we're fighting against, but there's nothing anyone can do because we need their resources and we can't have them whispering mean things about us in the ears of the House of Saud."

"I know that," Ruth replied. "But was have Ahmed's associates. We can expose them and bring them to justice."

It never paid to have an all or nothing attitude; not in their line of work. Lucas knew that. But he still loathed the thought of one slipping the net because of diplomatic niceties. Suddenly, however, he felt he understood his boss that little bit better. Harry wouldn't cross the street to spit on them if they were on fire.

Ruth closed the file and answered her mobile phone. While she spoke, Lucas zoned out but couldn't help notice the sudden and sharp lift in her mood. Her smile was almost dazzling.

"Good news," she said, after the call ended. "Nathan's awake and he's going to make a full recovery."

Lucas breathed a deep sigh of relief. "Excellent. Now, I hate to push things, but I really want to see if he recognises Joseph Weston as the man who attacked him. Ros and I will call in on our way home tonight."

"Go easy on him, though," she cautioned, getting to her feet again. "He's still tender and his family are with him."

He reigned in his urge to get the job done accordingly. Abandoning what was left of his tea, he followed Ruth out of the cafeteria and into the main building. Finally, it felt as though they were all getting somewhere conclusive.

* * *

Abandoned as the farm house may well have been, Harry could still ill-afford to leave any trace of their time there. Everything they had brought, from sandwich packets to listening devices, was carefully boxed up and loaded into the back of Ruth's car. It would be sorted properly once they reached the house. In the meantime, they all worked methodically to clear out the bunker and the living rooms.

Meanwhile, outside, the afternoon wore on and the daylight faded to an inky dusk. Brisk northerly winds whipped at his coat as he trudged between the farmhouse and the car, passing Tariq and Malcolm intermittently. Inside, Ruth was talking on her mobile and ignoring the boiling kettle on the stove.

"Harry!" she mouthed, flapping a hand at him.

As soon as he came to a halt, she resumed her conversation as though he wasn't there. A habit he found intensely irritating. However, she quickly ended the conversation and approached him with a kiss.

"Ros has recovered CCTV footage from Securitech that shows Weston was there the night Nathan was stabbed," she said. "All we need now is a positive ID from Nathan himself."

"Excellent news," he said, happy again. "Look, shall we bypass the final cup of tea and just get out of here? We're almost done packing and I don't want to hang around."

There were still bits and pieces from the kitchen to dispose of. Half-used cheese and corned beef packets; milk and eggs. Small items, but stuff they didn't want to be leaving behind.

"Sure," she agreed, to his relief. "It won't take a minute."

Meanwhile, Tariq and Malcolm had returned from the car. The pair of them repaired to the lounge, engaging in a lively discussion about technology old and new. Or rather, old versus new. As ever, Malcolm was refreshingly old school about the issue. Harry smiled at the sound of the overheard snippets of conversation. To give them more time, he packed up what was left and carried it to the boot of the car himself before returning, leaving the boot open.

Upon his return, he closed the door behind him and paused to warm up by the radiator. The trip light over the porch shut off, then quickly switched itself back on again as something else triggered the sensor. He froze, trying to screen out the voices in the lounge as he focused on what was happening beyond the closed door. The light from the trip flooded through the porch windows, illuminating the darkened hallway. But the glass was frosted and he could make out nothing through the porch windows.

Glancing down the length of the hallway, he caught Ruth's eye and pressed a finger to his lips. Then, he gestured her over.

"What is it?" she whispered, approaching cautiously.

He raised a hand flatly, gesturing to her to stop. But as soon as he did so, a crash came from outside. One of the boxes being pulled out of the boot of the car. Harry kicked himself for leaving it open. Then the noise brought out Tariq and Malcolm.

"What on earth was that?" the older of the two techies asked, a frown troubling his brow. "Sounds like there's someone out there."

That's because there was, but Harry didn't have the heart to actually say it. "I've been saying this for weeks; there's someone out there. Watching us. Spy's instinct."

Ruth looked pale in the poor light. Tariq was merely curious. He grabbed an umbrella stand as if it were some sort of weapon. Harry had his handgun brought from home, he reached for it now and released the safety catch.

"Wait here-"

"I'm not staying in here alone," Ruth cut in.

She had that look on her face that brooked no arguments. Meanwhile, Malcolm reached past them all and wrenched open the door, letting in a strong gust of freezing cold wind. None of them paid any mind to it as they all eased their way outside.

As he had guessed, one of the boxes had been pulled out of the back of the car and its contents now lay strewn across the beaten earth tracks. Empty food packets were flying off into the night like rustling insects and a newspaper fluttered its pages half-submerged in a puddle. They all drew deep breaths, calming their racing nerves as they took in the scene. There was no one there.

Emboldened, they spread out a little and ventured beyond the reach of the trip light. From the corner of his eye, Harry could see Ruth rounding a corner slowly. Instinctively, he followed her to protect her from whatever or whoever was out there. But she was ahead of him, rounding the corner and letting out a piercing shriek.

"Ruth!" the men all called in unison.

An inhuman squeal of panic followed as Ruth bolted back towards them, her hand covering her mouth, eyes wide with terror. Relieved that she was otherwise okay, Harry's temper snapped and he rounded the corner ready to take on whoever was there. But he tripped and fell over something large and moving, eliciting another inhuman squeal of fear. Followed by an incessant grunting as more of the same herded around him.

"Connie's fucking pigs!" he bellowed, fighting to get back up again.

One of them had a tablecloth in its mouth and another was nosing at an empty sandwich packet. There were scores of the bastards surrounding their car in search of food. All the while, Ruth, Tariq and Malcolm were flapping their arms madly, trying to shoo them away.

"Harry! It's got my dress!" Ruth was pointing towards a herd of four of them.

He loaded a bullet in the chamber and fired into the darkening skies. The shot echoed over and over, fading over the Surrey countryside and sending every last pig running for cover. Their new porcine friends melted into the night like old pros. Only Connie could have her own savage pig army, he thought wryly to himself.

* * *

 **Thank you again for reading; reviews would be very welcome if you have a minute.**


	13. Still Life

**Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, it means a lot. Thank you. Once again, apologies for the long delay in getting this updated. Writer's block, once more. But thanks for being patient.**

* * *

 **Chapter Thirteen: Still Life**

A steady stream of visitors had left Nathan exhausted. A procession of people filing in and out of his hospital room, each asking the same questions and expecting the same answers. Answers he was too weary to give, probably because he had already given them a hundred times. People he hadn't seen in years and hadn't expected to see again, even came. Each of them taking away with them a piece of his resolve. The only constant presence was his father and mother; the only notable absence was Olly. Olly, whom he had not seen at all since regaining consciousness. For all he was worth he tried to pretend that it wasn't bothering him.

Now relocated from the bed to an armchair by the window, he looked outwards over the car park. The colour of the vehicles in the lots outside were blurred by the rain running down the glass. A sight that hardly inspired any greater will to keep living. Meanwhile, his father's voice sounded in the room behind him. It had receded to a low buzz while he thought once more of where his partner could have gotten to. But the wondering only led him farther down a path into a morass of self-pity.

"Are you listening?"

His father's question jolted him out of his reverie. "Yes, of course I am."

"What did I just say?"

He had the decency to blush. "Sorry, I missed that bit." Before his father could say anything further, he pressed on with his own train of thought. "Has Olly been here? Have you seen him?"

Inwardly, he suspected something had been said. Something was keeping him away and the reason was sat on the edge of his hospital bed, now looking agitated.

"He's gone to get something," replied the older man. "He'll be back soon. Now, did you hear what I just said to you or were you completely away with the fairies?"

"Gone where?" he asked, persistently. "He can't go back to the old house, Dad. It's too dangerous; the op's still ongoing."

He could scarcely remember what the op was about, but he knew he couldn't go back home because of it. It felt to him as though a fundamental part of his brain and personality was still deep in that coma. He was missing something, he had left something behind. Or a part of him really had died that night in the underground car park. Worse still, he couldn't articulate it. He couldn't mention any of it to any one of these endless pilgrims passing through his room. Only Olly. Now that he wasn't there, he grew angry. An anger that found no outlet so was left to simmer as his injuries prevented him even indulging in a spot of agitated pacing.

 _Fuck this_ , he thought to himself and turned back to the window. He was dimly aware of his father's continued presence in the room. However, he dearly wished for the old man to just go, now. He tried to communicate his wish by keeping his gaze directed out of the window and giving only shrugged and grunted replies to further enquiries. The rain captivated him until he felt his father's hand cupping his chin, tilting his head upwards again. Looking into his father's eyes, the older man sighed sadly and leaned down to kiss him.

"I think I'll leave you to sleep off this strange mood you're in," he said, helping Nathan to stand. "Your mother and I will come to see you this evening."

Nathan put up no resistance as he stiffly returned to bed. No longer being wired up to a myriad of machines made the process a little easier, but the injuries pained him and his joints felt like rusty hinges. He half expected his bones to creak. But now that he had shaken off his last, lingering visitor, a twinge of guilt made its presence felt. He wanted everyone gone, now they were and he felt bad about it. Unable to do right for doing wrong, he no longer knew his own mind.

"Sorry, Dad," he said, remorseful now. "I just…"

But he couldn't say just what. Giving up, he lay back down and listened to his father's footsteps receding down the ward outside. He was soon lost among the people out there, while he, Nathan, was left awake and alone. Every time he closed his eyes the attack happened all over again. So there he lay, fighting to keep his eyes open to stave off the memories for just a few more moments, losing the battle. But sleep came as easily as death, until another voice pulled him back from the brink.

"Don't tell me you're still in bed?"

Nathan screwed his eyes shut, as though eyelids made a good substitute for an iron portcullis to keep intruders at bay. Groaning aloud, he tried to roll over. Meanwhile, clipped footsteps made their way to his bedside and the woman eased herself into the seat he had just vacated. She was leaning back in the seat, slender arms draped casually along the length of the armrests. Regarding him with those keen green eyes. He didn't need to look at her to second guess her demeanour. When he did open his eyes again it was as though the Ros Myers of his imagination had simply projected herself from his brain and into the chair. The only difference was the small smile playing at her lips.

"Wakey wakey," she said, low. "A week's sleep is enough for anybody, as far as I'm concerned."

Behind her, Lucas North stood with both hands resting on the chair back. The older Spook had been so silent Nathan hadn't even guessed at his presence. Remembering that he had been on the run, the sight of him now brought with it a relief that made him lightheaded. Then, his gaze slipped from Lucas, downwards to the file in Ros' lap. Finally, it seemed, someone had come to tell him something. Maybe even show him something, if his luck was in.

"I'm awake," he assured them both as he struggled to sit back up again. Eventually, Lucas stepped forward to help him. "So, who tried to kill me?"

Evidently gratified by his cutting to the chase, Ros smiled a little broader as she opened the file on her lap. Once at the relevant page, she handed it straight to him. Several neatly arranged mugshots greeted him. "You tell me," Ros instructed.

* * *

Harry lifted a corner of the sandwich and regarded the contents with the deepest of suspicion. After a second, he lifted his gaze to meet Ruth's. He didn't look impressed. "Bacon?"

Ruth beamed. "Well, it had to be really, didn't it?"

"Hmmm…" he replied, darkly. "Should all pigs suffer for the actions of a few?"

Ruth had already tucked into her own feast. They were sat in a café not far from Thames House. A discreet little place set off the main street. More fundamentally, it was sheltered from the rain and warm inside. The windows had become clouded with steam from the open kitchen area, so not even passers-by could see in. Harry was half-tempted to write random swear words in the condensation just for the childish fun of it. But before the temptation could grow too strong to resist, Ruth's voice jolted him out of his reverie.

"You shouldn't take it to heart, Harry. You just heard something shuffling around out there and your spy instincts kicked in. I would have done the same, had I heard it too. You weren't to know Connie's pigs were still running amok out there."

But it wasn't that he was taking it all too seriously. It was more that it felt like a lost opportunity. It could have been something to do with the case. Instead, it was feral pigs. He dreaded to think what the DG would make of it. Or Ros. For the sake of his own sanity, he waived his concerns aside and returned to the matter at hand.

"We're now relying solely on Nathan's remembering who attacked him," he pointed out. "What if it wasn't Weston? It seems a little too convenient that the same person who tried to kill him was the same one who turned up at the hospital to finish him off."

Ruth shrugged. "But why not? And even if it isn't him, we still have Faisal Ahmed connected to John Carlton. We still have Weston himself. I mean, even if it wasn't Weston, we know that Weston is in this up to his eyeballs." She paused to finish her sandwich. "Anyway, what about the Home Secretary?"

They had met that morning. Finally, it seemed, he had gathered enough evidence to bring the deal with Securitech to a halt. So far, the official reasons were being given as ethical differences, at least within Whitehall circles. Harry didn't kid himself for a moment that Towers would be so open with the public at large. God only knew what the papers would report – if anything at all. He suspected already that the matter would be quietly dropped. While he filled Ruth in on the details, she finished their lunch and he prepared to settle the bill.

Once outside again, they set off back towards Thames House. Autumn had arrived in full force, the air carried a chilly bite and they kicked up plumes of dry, bronze leaves with every step they took. The trees looked naked and gnarled branches stooped and swayed to cover their modesty. They were in no hurry, so they joined hands and crossed the bridge in a leisurely stroll.

"Catherine called last night," he said, smiling at last.

Ruth glanced up at him. "I'm so happy that you're in regular contact with her."

"Better than that, she and Will have invited us to dinner on Sunday," he informed her. "I hope you don't think it presumptuous of me, but I agreed on your behalf."

"Of course not! If it brings you two closer together then I'll be there with bells on," she assured him. "Have they already moved in together?"

They hadn't. But Will kept a toothbrush in Catherine's bathroom cabinet and vice versa. Some old stone-aged beast within him refused to acknowledge that his daughter was sexually active, so could only ever picture them sitting on the sofa and holding hands all night. But, he would rather it was with Will than anyone else. Now that he had had time to think on it, it seemed almost natural that they should be together. It felt like the closing of one painful episode and the beginning of something almost poetic. If ever they had babies, he knew in his heart it would be via Immaculate Conception and delivered by Stork.

By the time they reached Milbank, it was gone two pm. The entrance to Thames House itself was made all the colder by the autumnal air blowing through the old limestone structure. An ornate, picturesque building in its own right, it could be bloody cold for all that when the winter started to set in.

Once through the pods, they were greeted by Tariq who deigned to look up from his computer just long enough to wave his whereabouts. Not bothering to dispose of their coats, they crossed the Grid and looked over the young techie's shoulder. A sound file was playing that only Tariq could hear, through the headphones. But subtitles were flashing up at the bottom of the screen.

"It's Jo," he said, glancing up again and lifting one earpiece. "She's talking to Weston now and this is her feed."

Harry and Ruth's gaze met, exchanging a glance only they knew the meaning too. Already she was reaching for the spare set. He stepped backwards, toward his office. "I'm calling a backup team."

* * *

Nathan sat up in bed with the photos open on his knee. Studying them intently, he ruled them out one by one. It was a white man, he was sure of that. He ruled out the man of Middle Eastern appearance for starters, then studied those who remained. While he scrutinised each face, he replayed the events once more. The arm around his shoulders, he had been a strong man steering him firmly toward the underground car park. Nor was he young. Older than him. Maybe Lucas' age. Dark hair, he remembered that. It was the sound of the man's voice he recalled most clearly.

Meanwhile, Ros and Lucas were picking through the box of chocolates his sister had bought for him. The box suddenly appeared under his nose, blocking his view of the photos.

"Do you want one?" Lucas asked.

Nathan glanced up at him. "You're too generous."

After picking one at random the box was withdrawn and he continued studying the faces. He fixed on one as he bit into the bitterness of a coffee cream and grimaced.

"God, that's fucking disgusting!" he complained, eyes watering. But once his vision cleared, he was back at the same face. "This one. This one, I'm certain of it. Who is he?"

He turned to Ros and Lucas in time to see them swap a smile, a glimmer of triumph in Ros' eye.

"Joseph Weston," she said. "Business associate of our friend John Carlton. He also popped in to visit you while you were unconscious."

Despite the chill that suddenly troubled him, Nathan raised a smile. "That was awfully considerate of him."

He remembered his father telling him about it; about him telling the nursing staff to keep the then unknown man away at all costs. Colour stole into his face, almost coyly, at the thought of his estranged father protecting him while he slept on oblivious. Meanwhile, Ros reached out to take back the pictures and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.

"Get some rest," she instructed him. "And we'll have you back on the Grid in no time."

The thought of returning to work thrilled him. A ray of light piercing the endless tedium of being bedridden in hospital. As they rose to leave, Lucas clapped a hand on his shoulder. "By the way, someone's waiting outside for you."

Nathan got up, trying to disentangle himself from the sheets. "Where?"

"He can't come in, so you'll have to open a window," explained Lucas. He winked, like an enigmatic bastard, and left him lying there.

Curious, Nathan got up and carefully guided himself to the window and drew back the blinds his father had closed an hour earlier. He was greeted, once more, by a wet car park. One the first floor, his view was good. But there was no one out there. Only cars being rained on. After a good few minutes of glaring out of that window, the waver caught his eye. A blue blur at first, his broke into a wide smile as he recognised Olly. A visit at last, but Nathan wasn't about to brook any nonsense about him staying out there.

Carefully, he inched the window open. "I'm alone, you can come in."

But Olly only got back in their car and drove it over to one of the disabled parking spaces beneath his window. An illegal move Nathan decided to ignore.

"What are you doing?" he asked, once Olly was out again. "Just come in; I need you. The nurse will kill me herself if she catches me here."

But Olly was grinning from ear to ear. "I can't, but I got you a present from Wales."

Nathan frowned as his partner opened the passenger door and fussed with something on the backseat. "Thanks, Olly, but I'd rather have you here with me. That's a nice present too, and you don't have to go all the way to Wales for-"

He cut off abruptly as Olly turned around and held up a tiny, ginger and white fluff ball of a kitten in a Lion King-esque moment of revelation. In accordance with the universal laws of nature, the kitten brought instant happiness. Nathan could just make out its little fuzzy tail curling round Olly's hands.

"For you," Olly called up to the window. "Your Dad knew someone in Wales who was selling them!"

It took Nathan a moment to regain the power of speech. "Just wait there," he eventually managed to choke out. "Don't move; I'm on my way."

It was only a kitten, but it was still life. He backed away from the window and threw a dressing down over his shoulders. He told the nurse he was headed for the Gents, then swung down the corridor and headed for the elevators. He felt almost giddy when he realised this was the most exercise he had had in over a week.

* * *

Harry hung up the phone and returned to Ruth and Tariq in a hurry. They were still watching over the meeting between Jo and Weston. "That was Ros," he told them both. "Nathan's given us a positive ID on Weston. It was him."

"Well that's it then, we bring him in," Ruth replied, quickly. She reached for Tariq's desk phone, ready to give the order herself.

Break through reached, Harry allowed himself the luxury of sitting down.

* * *

 **Thanks again for reading, reviews would be welcome if you have a minute.**


	14. A Conflict of Interest

**Thank you to everyone who has been reading this story, especially those who have left reviews. Thank you. Apologies again for the long delay between updates, but Christmas, New Year and then birthday all got in the way.**

 **Even I can't remember what's supposed to be happening now.**

* * *

 **Chapter Fourteen: A Conflict of Interest**

Before getting back into the car, Ros looked over her shoulder at the hospital building and indulged in a small smile. Despite the bleak afternoon slowly giving way to an equally bleak evening, the sight of her unexpectedly alive Junior Case Officer going weak kneed over a kitten was just enough to throw some sunshine over the world. Even her world.

"What are you so happy about?" Lucas sounded terse, lifting his scowl from his phone and turning it to Ros.

She nodded to where Nathan was now hobbling out of the hospital door, towards Olly who had the new kitten wrapped up in a woolly jumper. "Just those two," she replied.

Lucas made an indecipherable noise somewhere at the back of his throat as he climbed into the passenger seat. The sound of the door slamming closed again heralded the end of this brief romantic interlude, snapping her back into the present. Expression once more grave, she started up the engine and pulled out onto the main road while Lucas contacted the Grid. The last she had heard, Jo was with their suspect having a friendly little chat about the goings on at Securitech. But now they had a positive ID on Joseph Weston, Ros could feel the proverbial shit turning horribly real. With Lucas on the phone to Ruth, she followed his relayed directions without hesitation. All the while, the radio played softly in the background, the chords and lyrics fading in and out through the static as though it were broadcast from another planet. She found herself humming along… _"I wish I could swim, like dolphins can swim…"_ Every note resonated somewhere along the line.

"Oh, we could be heroes; just for one day," she murmured inaudibly, feeling oddly melancholic.

The song faded, replaced by some lesser noise of no importance. The drone of Lucas' directions continued, regaining their pre-eminence. Torn between her awareness of time dragging on and Jo stuck with a suspect and fishing for reasons to keep him discreetly detained, Ros put her foot down. The flash of a speed camera momentarily dazzled her as she swerved through the city centre, but she kept up her pace until Lucas directed her to an office building somewhere in the hive of town. An anonymous looking building, utterly indistinct from its neighbours. Only its proximity to Securitech's headquarters raised a red flag for her. She parked the car so that it was blocking the entrance; convenient for them but a pain in the backside for everyone else.

"Is Jo alone in there?" she asked, directed her gaze to Lucas.

He slipped his mobile into his breast pocket. "Yes, we need to get moving."

The light inside the building was near dazzling after being out in the darkening streets. But Ros kept her attention focused on the lone member of staff who seemed to be within reach. A portly, uniformed Security Guard. His SIA card hung round his neck on a cord, but she could not make out what his name was. He was sitting behind a long oak effect desk, eyes directed at a row of small screens concealed from outside behind a panel. Other than that, there was nothing but an elevator. Although he must have heard the automatic doors slide open and the sound of their footsteps echoing through the empty reception, the Security Guard ignored them until Ros pointedly cleared her throat. Up close, she could finally see what held the man in such captivation: a copy of "Nuts" magazine, propped against the CCTV monitor. He didn't even bother to try and hide it as he finally acknowledged the new arrivals.

Arranging her face into a professional smile, Ros rolled out her skills of improvisation.

"Oh, hi. We're here for a meeting with Joseph Weston. He is expecting us; I believe our colleague is already here? We were just running late."

The Security Guard swept the magazine aside and jabbed at a few keys on his keyboard. "Second floor, first door on your right."

With that he turned away again, leaving Ros and Lucas free to continue. They exchanged a glance while they waited for the elevator doors to open, each relieved that no awkward questions had been asked. But with that final hurdle cleared, an all too familiar sweep of apprehension crossed Ros. She felt her body tense and the hairs at the back of her neck prickle. Even when an Op was considered low risk, that risk still existed. There was no such thing as zero.

"Ah well, at least the lift doesn't smell of piss." Lucas raised a smile at his desperate attempt to lift the tension that had thickened between them. She responded with an eye-roll he probably didn't catch.

Seconds later, they were disgorged on the second floor.

"Seriously, Lucas, what is this place?" she asked, taking in her new surroundings.

Shell companies don't have physical offices. It was close to Securitech, but not part of the actual HQ. What few doors had windows in them were all dark and blank. No names appeared, nor logos above the door. None of the insignia or marks of a normal business at all. It looked abandoned. But with Jo still playing at the back of her mind, Ros pushed all extraneous concerns aside as she followed the Security Guard's directions. When they reached the relevant door, they paused and listened to the sound of muffled voices inside. Jo's was one of them, much to her relief.

Before she could lay a hand on the door knob, Lucas shouldered his way inside. The voices inside ceased abruptly; Jo's relief offset by Weston's disgruntled confusion. Lucas hovered menacingly in the door way, like a repo man on steroids in case their target cut up rough, while Ros let a surreal calmness take over. "Sorry to break up the party," she said, tonelessly. "But I think it's time we took this elsewhere."

* * *

After Lucas had hung up Ruth continued listening to the buzz of the dead line on the telephone, momentarily lost in her own thoughts. Only when Harry's office door slammed shut did she jolt out of her reverie and hang up the receiver. Something troubled her; something she couldn't quite put her finger on. She turned her gaze across the Grid, not taking in her surroundings, but directing herself towards Harry's office. The door still firmly shut and the blinds closing as soon as she tried the window, as though he'd second guessed her. Sighing, she made a move towards the first papers within her reach.

She found herself holding the chat log again, threading it through her fingers as she read and re-read the conversation. Her brow knitted as phrases and words snagged at her mind, last minute revelations that made her doubt everything that had gone before. Nathan had positively ID'ed the man who stabbed him, but not the man who murdered Suleiman. They were still assuming it was one and the same person. She dropped the print out and looked towards Harry's office again. The blinds were drawn back, he was open for business once more.

Noticing that Tariq was leaving, Ruth glanced at the clock and chided herself for once more losing track of time. It was early evening, it would be darkening outside and everyone would be keen to get this over and done with. What little time she had left, she opted to use to clear up some of her nagging misgivings.

"Harry." She knocked at the door to get his attention.

He greeted her with a smile. "Ruth, come on in."

After taking a moment to gather her thoughts, she sat down and reached for that thing which had really been bothering her.

"I'm worried about William Towers," she said, at length. "How can we be sure he wasn't deliberately turning a blind eye to what Securitech and John Carlton were up to?"

Having been expecting him to dismiss her out of hand, she was relieved to see him taking her seriously. Usually, it meant he'd been thinking along similar lines himself. Meanwhile, he sat back and regarded her carefully as he mulled things over.

"I don't think so," he replied, eventually. "It's probably just a classic case of a politician being too stubborn to admit he's wrong."

"But it's odd, don't you think? Towers was prepared to see more than one of our team pushed off a cliff, purely for the sake of this deal with Securitech. Going as far as to ignore warnings over their links to terrorist cells who're the very same people we're supposed to be fighting against."

It was like one big terrorist circle jerk. The only difference was, Securitech set themselves up to benefit from being on both sides of the fence. Supplying the government with one hand and ISIS with the other guaranteed well-oiled palms all round. With a note of dismay, Ruth realised she had already solved the mystery as to why Carlton was doing all this. Money. Just money. Lives don't matter when money is at stake.

"Do you think Weston also killed Suleiman and left his severed head on Nathan's car?" she asked, her voice and spirits low. "Suleiman wasn't just exposing ISIS, he was also blowing Securitech out into the open. Weston would have had a motive."

"It's possible," Harry reasoned. "But would he have known that Suleiman was even talking to us? Depends on how much Towers let slip to Carlton at that little gathering we attended."

Ruth shivered at the memory: Towers acting like the local drunk, wandering hands and all. It played out in her memory again. There was something "off" about that, too. She clearly remembered thinking it at the time. Was Towers drugged? It was possible, but they could never know for sure now. Not unless Weston talked.

"So, how do you want to do this?" she asked, meeting his gaze again. "Weston, I mean. Are you going to offer him a deal?"

In return, he gave her a surprisingly forlorn look. Like she had once again reminded him of humanity's disappointingly fickle core.

"With people like him, it's usually easy," he replied. "They're motivated by greed; their weak spot is glaringly obvious."

She tried to think of some way to restore his faith in humanity between that moment and Weston's arrival. Her options limited, the best she could offer was them taking a detour on the way home, via their favourite Italian place for a take away. They could stuff themselves with carbs and wine and make the world seem a slightly rosier place together. He reached across the table, taking her hands in his own and managed to raise a smile.

"I'd be so much thinner without you," he said.

"So what?" she asked, rhetorically. "Life's too bloody short for that."

She smiled as she rose to her feet again. Outside, she could just hear the pods whooshing open and the muffled footsteps of the new arrivals. Rightly guessing it was Ros, Lucas and Jo, she left to let Harry work his magic on their newest suspect.

* * *

Nathan's phone vibrated, rotating against the smooth polish of the bedside table. He sighed in his sleep, but did not awaken immediately. Only when the nurse arrived to change his dressings and grill him about his feelings did he open his eyes and acknowledge the conscious world. Picking up the phone just as sodden bandages were pulled from his tender flesh, he grimaced and played the small video clip Olly had sent him.

The new kitten, a pixelated ginger and cream fuzz of fur, pawed at a ball of wool and lost. Despite his discomfort, Nathan grinned widely.

"Fidel 'Cat-ro' or Catnip Everdeen?" read the text message.

Nathan laughed, torn between two equalling cringe-worthy choices. Chairman Meow was never really going to be beaten, but they could at least follow the tradition. After a moment left grinning to himself, he swept the pad of his thumb over the reply button.

' _Fidel Catro, I think_.' Message sent.

* * *

Harry shivered as the door to the interview room opened, unleashing a gust of frigid November air from within. The sight that met him was just as bleak. Unremarkable walls of uniform grey, a small space dominated by a lone table. A tape recorder, a relic from a bygone age, sat on top of it. A bare lightbulb hung from the ceiling, flickering against amidst loose wires. The only colour in the room came from its inhabitants: Ros, almost all in black; Lucas similarly attired, and a middle aged gentleman in a business suit. Joseph Weston, he assumed. Harry nodded to Lucas, signalling that his purpose had been served and he was free to go.

"Good luck, Harry," the Senior Case Officer murmured as he exited.

Harry nodded an acknowledgement of his words and sat in his vacated seat. Ros turned to him, greeting him with a look of supreme boredom. If their suspect was suspiciously quiet, Weston didn't keep them waiting long for a rushed outburst of the State Security Forces utter injustice.

"You can't do this; this is England, not bloody China. Who're you working for? Stalin, I bet. I suppose you think you can just fly innocent members of the public off to Guantanamo Bay and no one will notice, don't you. Well, I have my lawyers and I'll drag you to the fucking the cleaners and back…"

Next to him, Ros drew a deep and steady breath before exhaling loudly. If he had turned to his right, he was sure he would have seen her magnificent eye roll. Meanwhile, he sat and arranged some papers and waited for the initial wave of self-righteous fury to reach its conclusion. It always seemed to take forever. However, in his experience, it was best to let them get on with it. Like letting a toddler kick and scream before patiently reiterating that, no, selling bombs to terrorists is not socially acceptable. But, of all the things Harry had been accused of throughout his long and illustrious career, working for Stalin had never been among them. He had to admire the man's originality at least.

"Mister Weston, just as we are not allowed to water board random members of the public, you are not allowed to go around plunging knives into the bodies of our Agents," he explained, patiently. "Or anyone else, for that matter."

"Lies! What bullshit is this?"

Ros clicked her tongue. "No, really, you aren't allowed to stab people. We're not making it up."

Weston's eyes narrowed as his gaze darted from Harry to her. "You're a funny one, aren't you?"

Ros finally smiled, drawing encouragement from the other man's discomfiture. Seeing Ros happy made Harry happy.

"Whatever you think of us, Weston, you have been positively identified at the scene of a near fatal stabbing and we would like to talk to you about that," Harry pressed on. "Our Analysts have also obtained certain online files linking you and your boss to the selling of a dirty bomb to militants operating in Iraq. Meanwhile, your same outfit is about to broker a deal with our own government. Some might say there's a conflict of interest in there, somewhere."

Harry sat back again, regarding the other man carefully. Would he stick to his paymaster, or was Ruth right and he could be bought? If a deal was to be struck, it would be at the lowest possible price. Some people just weren't worth it. But, while he was lost in his own thoughts, Ros was laying out the evidence against the man, supplied to her by Ruth. They even had tape recordings of Weston speaking with John Carlton picked up by the bugs from Connie's farm. The more evidence they had against him, the tighter his corner became … the more Harry could shave from his final value.

"So, tell me," began Ros, once the evidence was presented. "Why do legitimate business man such as yourself and John Carlton go into business with the likes of ISIS?"

It looked as if Weston was going to answer, but the words seemed to choke him. Colour rose in his face as he finally choked out: "No comment."

Harry felt the anger rearing up in him again. "Can you tell us-"

"No comment!" Weston cut him off again.

It was getting late, it was dark outside and Harry could hear rain lashing against the room's sole window. There were a million other places both he and Ros could be right at that moment, other than where they were. In that moment, he decided neither of them got paid enough for this. He was unwilling to drag it out.

"Very well then," he stated, gathering up his papers. "My colleague and I both have homes to go to, so that's where we'll be. You, in the meantime, can sample the minimalist charms of our detention suite."

Without further ado, he got up and rapped his knuckles hard against the locked door to attract the attention of the guards.

"Wait!" Weston snapped, getting to his feet.

Ros responded by mimicking the move, wary in case he cut up rough. Eyeing her, Weston thought better of it and sat back down. In the meantime, the guards entered but Harry raised his hand, gesturing for them to momentarily stand down.

"You can't do this," Weston continued. "MI5 don't have powers of arrest, so-"

"But we can detain you," Harry clarified, calmly stepping into the grey area. "You're not under arrest, but that's not to say you're free to go either."

"So, if you want this over and done with, I suggest you start playing ball and answer our questions," Ros chipped in. "Otherwise, we'll have to do this all over again in the morning."

A standoff developed, with all three of the room's occupants turning to look at the others. Only Ros broke the chain, turning to glance into her lap as though done with the whole experience. Harry tensed, however, holding Weston's gaze in his own, willing him to make a move just so he could scupper it. More mind games, he thought to himself.

"Very well," Weston said, at length. "Let's get this done with."

But he was not the one calling the shots. Harry leaned over to Ros and laid a hand on her shoulder. "We resume this first thing in the morning," he said to her.

Weston looked stricken. "I just said I'll talk!"

"And I have just said we'll resume this meeting in the morning," Harry reiterated. "Good day to you."

Ros was already out the room, Harry close behind. Weston, in the meantime, would be left in there under lock and key until they were well out of the way. Outside, back on the Grid, Ros fell into step with him.

"That showed him who was boss," she commented, lips curled at the corners. "Do you think it'll break him?"

"He's already broken; he just hasn't realised it yet," he assured her.

They said no more as they gathered their coats and stepped out through the pods. Another day done; another op in momentary limbo. He stopped caring as soon as he remembered that Italian Ruth had promised him.

* * *

 **Thanks again for reading; reviews would be lovely if you have a minute. Again, I'm very sorry for the massive delay in getting this story updated.**


	15. Waxing Lyrical

**Thank you to everyone who has read this story, especially those who have left reviews. Thank you.**

* * *

 **Chapter Fifteen: Waxing Lyrical**

Nathan glanced at his reflection in the mirror and finally caught sight of the beard he'd hitherto only felt. A thick, tawny scrub of growth now sprouting over half of his face that made him look as though he'd taken a step down the evolutionary ladder. Bringing one hand to his chin, he tried to probe his way through the coarse hair to find what lay beneath. Only, seconds later, to have Olly smack that same hand away.

"Hold still," Olly gently chided, readying the scissors. "We'll cut the worst of it off and that'll have to do until you're home."

Dropping his hands to his lap, he instead toyed with the towel that now covered his knees. It wasn't just that the hospital lacked for male grooming facilities. It was the warfarin coursing through his veins, turning his blood to rusty water, that made shaving too dangerous. Every evening, a plump and friendly Indian nurse came to his bedside and shot another dose of this souped-up rat poison into the space between his navel and pubic bone. The fluid burned as it transitioned from syringe to flesh, causing his eyes to water. As if some old instinct kicked in at that moment, Nathan always curled his toes and lay back in the bed as though waiting for the high to come. But it never did and he always felt short changed.

"It hurts," he moaned, meeting Olly's gaze.

The other man sighed heavily. "How can it? I haven't even done anything yet."

"Not that. I mean the injections. They hurt."

Olly paused just as he was about to snip away a chunk of beard and rolled his eyes. "Sometimes, you are such a baby. Now stop talking or I'll cut your chin."

Silently, he seethed against the insult and glared up into Olly's face. He was standing behind his chair, leaning round and now cutting away at the brittle hair. Nathan could see how tired he looked. Days of worry, sleepless nights, still stuck in the safe-house they had been allocated and sad that they would probably never return to their old home. The strain was showing. Dark eyes made all the darker by the rings under them, glittering fever bright under the harsh hospital lights. He frowned in concentration now, silent with his jaw clenched.

Nathan wondered what was going on his head. Olly never asked questions. He never demanded to be told anything. Maybe he knew what the answer would be; maybe he already decided he would be better off not knowing. But he rolled with the punches and now had the black eyes to show for it. He, Nathan, felt a twinge of guilt curl inside him. But his job was so secret he suspected even his sense of guilt over it was now classified information. Like everything else, he kept it to himself.

While he cogitated, Olly kept steadily cutting away at the beard. Frowning still, lining his brow deeply. Nathan studied that expression, trying to gage how this impromptu barber's session was going. Good or bad, he couldn't tell. But there were a lot of cuttings falling as silent and dark as London snow onto the towel on his lap. After what seemed an age, Olly took a step back and regarded him like a painting in the Louvre. The frown remained.

"Oh," said Olly, at length.

Nathan waited, growing more concerned by the minute. "Oh?"

"Mm," replied Olly. "Just, see for yourself."

Nathan hesitated, bracing himself for what he was about to see, before reaching for the hand mirror.

"Oh dear," he greeted his reflection. "Well, you never claimed to be a barber."

Some bits were cut down to the skin, other bits looked altogether untouched. A patchwork, tufty mess of bristles that made him resemble one of the shouting crackheads who seemed to assemble outside their local branch of Tesco.

"What about leg wax?" Olly suggested.

Nathan shrugged, putting the mirror down. It was late now, it would have to wait until morning. But it wasn't as if he was planning on going anywhere.

"Leg wax, on my face," he replied, at length. "It's basically the same principle, isn't it? What could possibly go wrong?"

That decided, Olly helped him back into bed. There was still no word on his release date, which meant the endless hospital days remained stretched out in front of him like a bleak and infinite horizon. By the time he was settled against the bank of pillows, the clock had struck the end of visiting time and they bid their farewells.

"Kiss Fidel for me," said Nathan.

Olly grimaced. "That sounds so wrong on so many levels." But the grimace faded into an expression of sadness. "You take care of yourself, yeah?"

Nathan noted the weariness again, inwardly concluding that it was him who should have been in the hospital bed at this point. Still, he raised a wan smile. "I'll see you tomorrow. And don't forget that wax!"

* * *

That night, Harry dreamt he was hitchhiking to the Gettysburg Address; there was something urgent he needed to tell Abraham Lincoln. But what that was he never did find out; he awoke confused and mildly amused long before he could deliver the message. Several hours later, Ruth was regarding him carefully over the breakfast table with a glass of orange juice in hand, as he relayed his dream.

"Maybe you were telling him not to go to the theatre," she suggested. "That would have been rather urgent."

Harry shrugged and laughed. "I'd like to think it was something along those lines."

The truth was, he had had enough of saving the hides of politicians in this lifetime, never mind the ones from eras long gone. Especially one with such a pivotal role in shaping the future of his greatest pain in the arse. Back in the day he had even taken a bullet for Margaret Thatcher. What if he had died back then? He supposed it didn't matter, because it hadn't happened. But if he was going to die for a politician he wanted it to be one of the ones everybody loved and admired. _So, that would be none of them then_ , the little brain-voice reminded him.

"Anyway, never mind Abraham Lincoln. You need to worry about William Towers," said Ruth. "If you get the truth out of Weston, this morning, you have to be prepared for Towers being more deeply involved in this than we realise."

Harry drained what was left of his morning coffee and pondered what had prompted her to say that. Intuition? Or maybe she was simply becoming just as cynical as he was. It wasn't the first time she had mentioned and he was beginning to wonder if she'd ironed his black leather murder gloves last night. Either way, he clung to his initial assessment that Towers had simply blundered into the arms deal, hungry for a cheap and easy supply of military hardware for their nation's cash-strapped forces. Anything was better than going cap in hand to the Saudis again. But nothing excused dealing with criminals supplying ISIS with one hand and a legitimate government with the other.

First things first, he thought to himself as they prepared to leave for the Grid. Weston had been left to cool off in the holding cells overnight. Usually, when that happened, they returned to a veritably Pandora's Box of surprises. Some were as frightened as children locked in a dark closet; others were waiting behind the door with a makeshift garrotte at the ready. Some were just broken and singing like canaries, which was great in principle. But often they were spilling information like a broken damn and anything useful was lost among the deluge. It was never easy.

By the time they arrived, Ros was waiting, perched against the edge of Lucas' still empty desk. Stern as a Victorian school ma'am, she wore her knee length pencil skirt and crisp white blouse. Black leather knee boots added a certain no-nonsense air of authority to her stride.

"Is it show time, yet?" she asked, by way of greeting.

Harry shrugged off his coat and straightened his tie. "Yes, I think so."

Ros responded with barely a flicker of a smile, before turning and heading towards the interrogation suite. Ruth, meanwhile, remained at Harry's side. Before she could take her place, he touched her elbow to still her.

"I want you to visit Nathan later and brief him on what's happening," he said. "He's being left in the dark and I don't like it."

Ruth smiled, a show of approval for his idea. It seemed he was learning as much from her as she from him. "Good idea, Harry. I'll head over at about ten-ish."

That settled, Harry followed in Ros' wake towards to the interrogation suite. A different one, this time, in another part of the building. He always found that using different suites unsettled the detainee, kept things completely unfamiliar and unpredictable. In their line of work, it never paid to be second guessed.

However, there was only so much variability between rooms. As such, Harry and Ros found themselves settling into another bleak, grey box of a room with the same solitary bare bulb swinging from the middle of the ceiling. Weston was already there, kept under lock and key with a guard on the door. A guard who ostentatiously rattled his keys and let them in, following a silent nod from Harry. It made the atmosphere more prison-like. All this psychological warfare excited him.

"Mister Weston," Harry greeted their guest. "I trust you found our hospitality suite to your liking?" he paused, reading the other man's reaction. After a moment of blank staring, he added: "Maybe not. That is a shame."

He set his briefcase down at his feet while Ros cut straight to business. From inside her breast pocket, she withdrew a small pen drive and plugged it into a small notebook computer she had carried in with her. For now, she opted not to open any files. Each file, Harry suspected, was a card up her immaculately tailored sleeve, to be played only when she deemed the time was right.

"Why did you attempt to kill our agent?" she asked, briskly.

Harry noted how she left no room for doubt over whether Weston did it or not. Weston, however, was not falling for it.

"I didn't."

Harry had already withdrawn a file from his briefcase and proceeded to lay out a series of photographs. Each one was time stamped in sequence, each taken from a CCTV camera located above a nurse's station at Nathan's hospital ward. They showed clear and pristine images of Weston glancing over the counter, at one point even looking up at the camera as if wondering if it was switched on or not. If Harry stacked the images again and flicked them, he thought it would be like one of those old moving stick cartoons.

"If you didn't try to kill him, why were you so keen to visit him in hospital? Couldn't possibly have been to finish the job off, could it?" He asked.

Weston shrugged. "Could have been anyone-"

"You asked for him by name," Ros cut in. "The nurses confirmed it and logged it."

She then opened one of the files: a photocopy of the log book in question. It was something in place as a precaution, keeping an eye on who entered and left Nathan's hospital room and, more to the point, who was trying to get in. She turned the screen to face Weston, so he could see the evidence for himself.

"So, I ask again, what is your connection to our agent? He doesn't know you, so why were you there?"

"No comment."

So, they were back to playing this game. Harry sighed and Ros rolled her eyes, each preparing to dig their heels in. But Harry wasn't prepared to wait. He made a point of asking the same re-phrased question over and over again. Each time he was met with a blank, automatic, "no comment".

Finally, he let silence descend and discreetly gestured for Ros to do the same. While she pretended to be preoccupied with something on the laptop screen, Harry got up and stretched himself out. His aging bones clicked into place, breaking the silence, before he brought his briefcase to the far end of the room, behind Weston's back. He checked, making sure Weston wasn't looking and slipped off his shoes, then spent a few more minutes letting the silence spiral. In only his socks, he stole back up on the suspect and slammed his briefcase down hard on the table, completely out of the blue. Weston jumped so far out of his seat Harry feared he'd have to scrape him off the ceiling tiles. Meanwhile, Ros continued gazing placidly at the laptop screen.

"Did you hear that?" she asked, nonchalantly.

"Talk!" Harry bellowed in the man's ear, refusing to play along with Ros' banter.

His patience had snapped, breaking their suspect's resolve. Weston was sweating by the time he sat back down. Pale and clammy, his grey eyes darting frantically about the room. His breathing was heavy, laboured.

"I can't tell you anything-"

"Oh, don't give me that," Harry retorted, now pacing the space behind Weston's chair. "You were at that hospital and you can begin by explaining why. Did John Carlton send you? Did you go of your own volition? Speak!"

"You were willing to speak last night," Ros pointed out. "Have you gone off us since then?"

Weston glared back at her, a sneer curling his lip. "You could say that, love. You should have listened when you had the chance."

Ros smiled back at him beatifically. "Well, you can't just swipe left and make us go away, so you'd better talk and get this little farce over and done with."

A standoff developed during which no one spoke. Harry waited, poised mid step, for the suspect to start.

"You need to speak to John Carlton," he said, eventually.

"We intend to," Ros assured him. "Now, tell us what you know."

Yet another silence descended. But this time, it was Ros whose patience snapped. She nodded towards the door, gesturing for Harry to step outside.

"He's really starting to piss me off now," she snapped, once they were safely out in the corridor.

She expressed Harry's own thoughts. For a moment, he began to suspect that leaving Weston to stew overnight could have been a fatal mistake. "I was rather hoping this would be over before noon," he admitted.

Together, they wandered down the passage way and took the opportunity to clear their heads. It was claustrophobic in the interrogation rooms, even for them. If he looked through the pods, he could see that Ruth's desk was now Ruthless, she was away to the hospital already. Lucas was talking on the phone, pacing in front of a large screen reeling off the headlines. Jo was tense, waiting for the word to move in on Carlton and Tariq was engrossed in his computer screen. All was as it should be, but for Weston's ongoing standoff.

"Maybe we should bring in Lucas," said Ros, calm now. "He can do mean and menacing as well as us both combined."

But Harry was hesitant. Bringing in someone else so soon felt like an admission of defeat. But before he could ponder the issue much further, the man himself caught his eye and gestured for him to come over. Lucas covered the mouthpiece of the phone as Harry entered through the pods again.

"It's Ruth," he said. "She's calling from the hospital; something's happened to Nathan."

Without asking him anything, he took the phone. "Ruth, is Nathan okay?"

"Harry, I don't know exactly how it happened. The nurses are in there now," she said, worriedly. "I'll come back and brief you fully-"

"No," he interjected. "Stay there and call back as soon as you find out what's happening."

"Harry! Wait!"

With no further ceremony, he hung up the phone and tried to quell the flicker of nerves that had suddenly assaulted him. After being repeatedly stabbed, anything could go wrong. Some internal damage had suddenly ruptured inside their Junior Case Officer, some overlooked perforation had suddenly made its presence felt. He could feel his blood run cold as he met Lucas' gaze.

"Roll up your sleeves, you're joining the party," he informed the other man.

"As you like it, boss," replied Lucas, taking Harry's suggestion to heart and rolling up his shirt sleeves. Prison tattoos appeared darkly from beneath the neatly pressed cotton.

From just beyond the pods Ros watched them approaching, looking concerned. "What's happened?" she asked once they were reunited.

"There's been some sort of complication with Nathan," Harry replied. "Ruth's going to stay with him and keep us informed. Which means we have even less time to waste on this oxygen thief. Lucas, when you get in there be your finest brooding, menacing self, okay? Guards! Dim the lights for us."

Lucas grinned, suppressed a laugh but made no verbal reply as he got himself into character. After another minute, the three of them were back in the interrogation suite. Lucas took up position at Weston's left hand side, Harry to the right. Both of them loured over the man, dark and threatening as storm clouds. Ros, meanwhile, sat calmly opposite Weston, legs crossed and arms relaxed along the armrests of her seat. She fixed Weston with a cold, calculating look.

"Let's try this again, shall we," she began. "Start by telling us why you tried to kill our agent and who gave you the order."

With both Lucas and Harry leaning over him, Weston didn't know where to look. His gaze darted left and right, trying to watch both men and Ros all at once. It was playing with his mind and Harry could tell. Meanwhile, both he and Lucas kept silent and perfectly still, but poised like they could strike at any moment. Weston swallowed hard, causing Lucas' knuckles to whiten as he gripped the edge of the table. A moment later and the lights dimmed from outside, plunging the interrogation room into semi-darkness. He was weighing up his options, slowly coming to the right decision.

"It was Carlton," he finally admitted, voice low as though trying to muffle the fact that he was turning his coat. "The other one knew too much. Suleiman had told him too much."

Ros cleared her throat. "That would be Sharaf Suleiman, who was murdered barely minutes after informing our Agent that Securitech had sold a dirty bomb to ISIS. The same dirty bomb that killed a number of SIS agents in Iraq."

"I had nothing to do with that," Weston protested, still trying to keep both Harry and Lucas in his line of vision. Even in the glutinous shadows, Ros could see the sweat beading on the man's brow as he continued to talk. "Suleiman's own people took care of him. But it was them that informed Carlton this other chap knew about Securitech's deal with ISIS. Now, I want a deal."

Harry's stance stiffened. "For your information, our Agent's condition has deteriorated. You could yet be facing a murder charge."

"We'll see to it that you go down for life," Lucas added, his voice a low rumble. "What sort of a deal do you think we want to make with you? After what you've told us we can throw you to the dogs, mate."

Ros watched the discourse with feigned disinterest and inspected her newly manicured nails appraisingly. "The only deal you'll be making is how difficult we decide to not make your life. So tell us everything and we might just let you walk out of here."

The trap had closed and Weston could finally see that there was only one way out. The final barrier fell.

"Carlton paid me to do it through a fake website, accessible only on the deep web," he said, eliciting a gratified smile from Harry. "I set up as an assassin for hire and we used that to transfer large sums of money between shell accounts, sometimes in the form of coins – an online currency."

Ros opened up her laptop files again, showing screenshots of Weston's fake website. "You mean this one?"

Weston nodded. "We used that site to try and set up some other guy. I forget his name, but another of you lot. Someone who had a bit of a history. Carlton thought if we could pin the blame on him, then MI5 would be too internally conflicted to come chasing us down."

He meant Lucas, who didn't so much as bat an eyelid. Only a muscle clenching in his jaw betrayed any sign of anger. Otherwise, he maintained his stance, glowering over their trembling suspect. Harry's glare hardened, his eyes onyx-black and furious in the semi-darkness.

"You tried to make out that the fake assassin's website was actually the property of an MI5 agent you tried to frame?" asked Ros, seeking clarity. "So you could also pin the blame for the ISIS bomb and the murders on him or her."

Once more, Weston nodded. "It was Carlton. He planned it all. I-"

"You just went along for the ride," Lucas cut in.

"Yes-"

"But you weren't in the passenger seat the night you tried to murder our Agent," Harry cut in. "It's too late to play the innocent now."

They had what they needed, for now. As Lucas stood up straight again, he walked past Weston's chair and kicked out hard at the legs and sending the man sprawling backwards. Harry barely glanced over his shoulder at the sight.

"Careful," he said, making a note to wipe that from the CCTV footage. "You'll do yourself a mischief."

* * *

Ruth picked up her pace as she approached the pods. All down the street, where she had left the car, she had been trying not to burst out into fits of laughter in public. With one hand clamped over her mouth, she crossed the Grid and knocked on Harry's door. But the sight of his grave expression sobered her as she entered, taking in an equally grave Ros and an exhausted Lucas.

"How's Nathan?" Harry asked, getting to his feet.

Lucas smirked, but looked away. Meanwhile, Ruth tried not to laugh again.

"Oh, Harry, you should have seen it," she said, taking the one vacant seat. "He got leg wax all over his face, clogging up his ears, and then howled the house down when they tried to pull it off."

Harry was agape, blanching rapidly. "What?"

"I did try to tell you, Harry, but you hung up on me," she protested. "He's on warfarin, so he can't shave. Instead, he tried to wax his beard off."

Lucas snorted like a donkey, shrinking into the corner as though avoiding Harry's ire. He failed, as the boss glowered at him.

"You knew!" Harry shot at him. "You let me think he was bloody dying of some internal injury… You let me deploy strong arm tactics on a suspect-"

Finally, Ros joined the fray. "Oh come on Harry, admit it, it was funny and it was worth it."

"I really wish I'd seen it, though," Lucas sighed. "So, did the leg wax work?"

"Did it work?" Harry repeated, askance. "I'll go down there and tear it out myself if it bloody didn't. I honestly thought the little shit was about to die!"

Insult was added to injury as Ros joined in the hastily suppressed laughter. "All's well that ends well," she managed to say between stifled laughs.

In an effort to ease Harry's embarrassment, Ruth tried to change the subject. "So, Weston talked then?"

Lucas grinned. "You could say he was waxing lyrical."

Harry huffed indignantly. "Shut up. All of you, shut up."

* * *

 **Thanks again for reading, reviews would be lovely if you have a minute. Apologies again for the long delay.**


	16. A Means to an End

**Thank you to everyone who has read this story, especially those who have taken time to review. Thank you. Again, apologies for the delay in updates – I, myself, can't quite believe just how long this story has taken. Well, on with the show.**

* * *

 **Chapter Sixteen: A Means to an End.**

 _Is that all I am to you? 'Some guy' there to be framed…_

Lucas' internal thoughts on the matter made him sound almost like a spurned lover. Someone to be used until something better came along. A means to someone else's end. Now he had served that purpose and had been casually tossed aside – or, almost, at any rate. He had never meant anything to Weston except for one cheap opportunity. He didn't even have the gumption to put two and two together and realise that Lucas had been the one to take the fall.

That moment in the interrogation had been replaying in his head like an internet GIF. At the time, his knuckles whitened and every sinew in his body tightened. Otherwise, he had swiftly composed himself and showed no reaction whatsoever. But inside, he had reeled. Weston's admission came like a kick in the gut and the urge to punch the bastard had been strong. Then, his spy training had kicked in and he let himself believe that he was not that 'some guy' they framed. It had been one of his aliases, not him. But now the working day was over and the bullshit stopped at the pods.

Now that he had stopped pretending, he half wanted to return to the Grid and have a moment alone with Weston while the cameras were conveniently shut off. It could be arranged and worse had happened in those interrogation suites. If those drab, grey walls could talk they would turn the air a brighter shade of blue. But with the eyes of the service still on him, he knew he had to play by the book.

During the drive home that evening, he had been a silent and surly presence in Ros' passenger seat. His gaze directed unflinchingly out of the window, like he was the one at the wheel. He made no attempt at small talk and Ros had not been so foolish as to attempt it in return. But nothing passed her by and he knew that she had noticed his taciturnity.

By the time they actually reached home, Lucas had the keys ready and opened their apartment door while maintaining his silence. Greeted by the cold and dark, the front room felt abandoned and sterile. Their furniture and the ornaments lining the shelves could only be seen in silhouette.

"Welcome home," said Ros. "Now are you going to tell me what's bothering you?"

She flicked on the lights and fell into an armchair, legs crossed and fixing him with a hard look in her eyes. It was the same expression she used when interrogating suspects.

"Like you don't already know," he replied, taking the armchair opposite hers. He drew a deep breath, buying a few seconds in which to marshal his own thoughts. "You were there when Weston admitted what he had done. He just came out with it as if it had been of no importance. But that was my whole life he came within a gnat's arse of destroying."

"So?" asked Ros, almost nonchalantly. "Every terrorist, gangster and subversive basket case we drag through those doors would love a chance to take us swimming with a brick. Why is it so different just because one of them accidentally admitted it to your face?"

He'd rarely been hit with such a blunt point before. "You're a very mixed metaphor, Ros. But then, I think that's why I love you."

She smiled, showing a rare glimpse of her softer side. "What do you want to do about it? Weston, I mean."

"I want to punch the bastard, but apparently there's this thing called the Human Rights Act and that sort of thing is generally frowned upon," he answered. "Anyway, what's the point? Even if I did deck the man, it'd only be one more thing on my conscience and Weston isn't worth it."

Venting anger was like that. A momentary relief followed by bruised knuckles and the threat of human rights activists hanging over his head like a Damocles Sword. In short, the hassle amounted to more than the end result. Wearily, he looked to the clock on the mantelpiece, the time inching towards eight in the evening and the moonlight shining through the net curtains reminded him of how bone tired he had become.

"Besides, it's all over now," Ros pointed out. "Weston's confessed, Carlton's been brought into custody and we now know what Securitech were up to. All that's left is Harry consoling the Home Secretary."

Lucas raised an eyebrow. "Rather him than me."

"Mind you, after the waxing incident, it could be a mutual thing," she added, thoughtfully. "First there was the pig incident at Connie's farm, now Nathan's near death experience with a tub of leg wax. Poor Harry's been getting his wires crossed left, right and center these days."

"Good God, I can see them now, crying into each other's shoulders," Lucas grimaced. "It really doesn't bear thinking about."

"You didn't exactly help by keeping the real scenario to yourself," she said, disapprovingly. "Or was your mind elsewhere by that stage?"

"Ah, come on now, it was funny," he replied. "Admit it, it was funny!"

Barely a flicker of a smile crossed her lips. "Now all we have to worry about is whatever's next."

"Now there's a thought." Actually, he didn't want to go there just yet.

* * *

William Towers was still shaking. He'd been cradling the same brandy for the last hour, swirling the contents to make the ice chink against the glass, at least until it melted into the liquor. After that, he consoled himself by gazing dolefully into the watery depths. Harry wasn't even sure if the Home Secretary was even listening to him anymore. But still he continued to make reassuring sounds.

They were tucked away in a discreet corner of a Gentleman's Club not far from White Hall. Those places were permanently discreet, but this was the most discreet part of that discreet interior. The price of the drinks was being added to Towers' bill, so Harry was in no hurry. Normally, in such establishments, his presence was as welcome as a fart at a funeral. Normally, he revelled in that knowledge. But tonight it ruined the air of discretion by making him feel as if he stuck out a mile.

Meanwhile, Towers continued to mope. "I thought about tending my resignation, you know."

"What would that achieve?" asked Harry.

He spoke more out of concern for who would come next, rather than affection for Towers. This blunder could have brought untold damage on the Government, as well as seen chaos on the streets, had ISIS managed to get a foothold in the British arms industry. But, the crisis had been averted and the criminals brought to book. Ruth was still on the Grid, at that moment, methodically compiling the evidence.

Now, Harry looked across the narrow table at Towers, safe in the knowledge that the man owed him. Owed him on a grand scale. It would be useful.

"Anyway," he added, "no one will ever find out how close you came. We have it under wraps. But I need to know, that you will never deign to interfere with the running of MI5 Operations again. What's the point of our existence if all we are is another branch of Government to do your bidding? Do you understand where we're coming from on this?"

The sting in his words made Towers fold in on himself a little further, as though he were trying to vanish on the spot. "You have my word, Harry. What more can I give you at this stage? Carlton took me in. It seemed like the best deal we could secure. It had everything: local jobs, cheap weapons for our cash-strapped forces and local investment. All at a bargain price."

Only, the price wasn't looking so cheap to Harry now. He finished off his own whiskey and gave the Home Secretary a few minutes in which to stew in his own juices. After that, he wanted to get home and surprise Ruth with a nice dinner. Then, after that, he wanted to get ready for Sunday's dinner with Catherine and Will Crombie. He smiled as he thought ahead. Life was beginning to look normal, almost routine. Family visits and social calls. Walks in the park with someone other than the dog. Conversations. He thought he hated smug bastards who seemed to have it, now he realised that he had only ever envied them, as much as it pained him to admit it.

Once more, he glanced in the direction of the man who came within a whisker of losing it all.

"Oh, cheer up," he said, exasperatedly. "And drink that brandy, for goodness sake. You've been contemplating it long enough already."

Towers sighed indignantly. "I knew I could rely on your infinite reserves of empathy and sympathy to shore me up in my darkest hour, Harry."

Harry flashed him a smile. "I'm famed for it, Home Secretary. Well, now I'm going home before they bring on the lady-boy strippers, or whatever debauchery it is you lot get up to in these places."

"Hmph, chance would be a fine thing," Towers retorted. He followed it up with a half-hearted raising of the hand, something Harry took as a gesture of farewell.

On his way out, the silent and immaculately dressed footman handed him his coat. Inside the pockets of which were the black leather gloves so carefully ironed by Ruth. But outside in the late autumnal air, it wasn't so very cold. He wouldn't be needing them tonight; not for either purpose.

* * *

It was late by the time Ruth had finished handing over all the evidence to the Met. Every document they had, every damning snippet of information about John Carlton and his cohorts was handed in and nothing left to chance. She was exhausted and her feet ached to the ankle, even with the driver who was ferrying her from pillar to post.

For the final leg of her journey, from Thames House to home, she drove herself. She passed the Hospital where Nathan was waiting for discharge and the club where Harry was 'consoling' the Home Secretary. She passed the spot where she and Harry once said goodbye on a shingle embankment before she sailed downriver to god knows where. Even all these years later that one spot caused a spasm of pain somewhere deep inside her. Every corner on every London street seemed to hold some memory or other, bringing with them pain, joy or something in between. At least her life had never been boring.

By the time she parked up outside their townhouse, it was nearing ten in the evening. Dark and chilly, a night breeze plucked at her hair as she let herself in. Light from the living room windows shone through the curtains and the silhouetted outline of Fidget the cat could be seen where he perched on the ledge. Frowning, she wondered whether Harry had left the lights on before they left that morning.

Tentative now, she unlocked the door and let herself in to be welcome by the warmth of their central heating and the smell of home cooked food. She could see him through the open kitchen door, uncorking a bottle of red to be left to breathe. He turned from the task at hand and smiled.

"Welcome home," he greeted her.

"Harry," she said his name, pulling him into a hug. "You did all this?"

"Sort of," he said, extricating himself and nudging a few takeaway boxes aside. But she saw them, and opted to make no mention of it. They were back together again and that was all that mattered. At least until the next crisis came along to spice things up a little.

* * *

The following morning dawned grim and frosty. But Nathan wasn't complaining. He was bundled up in a wheelchair – quite needless in his own opinion – with a blanket over his knees. Currently parked before the front desk, he looked up at his parents who were signing what needed to be signed. Then, he was being whisked away to Wales for a week. Time to convalesce before re-entering the fray of national security. While he was away Olly would be moving them into their new home – another service approved place in central London, near to Thames House.

Meanwhile, the man himself had entered the Hospital to see him off.

"It worked then," he said, tilting Nathan's chin up.

He was referring to the wax job. "I told you it would."

"It was my idea!" Olly protested.

"Like that's anything to boast about." Nathan turned round to find his mother louring over the both of them. "Bloody idiot, you could have had your whole jaw off. What were you thinking?"

But she moved on after she had had her mini-vent. She tucked the ends of his blanket in before returning to the front desk to collect his painkillers and anti-biotics. The latter a precaution against any infection to his stab wounds.

Olly watched her leave before turning back to Nathan. "A week of that to look forward to. Can't say I envy you."

"Don't," Nathan rolled his eyes. "Just don't."

They engaged in an awkward embrace, kissing each other quickly before Nathan could be wheeled away into the sunrise. Another mission survived, but only just.

* * *

 **And this is where I leave it for this one. Apologies for the abrupt ending, but I could not think at all on how to end this one more thoroughly. But, thank you for reading and, as always, reviews would be welcome if you have a moment to spare. Thank you.**


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